Yet the eternal song I sing, From sun and shadow made, Is lisped as sweetly every spring By the least flowers that fade. MAIDS AND MUSHROOMS Oddly fashioned, quaintly dyed, In the wood the mushrooms hide; Rich and meaty, full of flavor, Made for man’s delicious savor. But he shudders and he shrinks At the piquant mauves and pinks. Who is brave enough to dare Curious shapes and colors rare, Dainties in peculiar dresses, Fairy-rings and inky messes? Something sinister must be In the strange variety. It is better not to know; Safer but to peer—and go. So the mushrooms dry and fade, Like full many a blooming maid, With her dower of preciousness Hid too well for men to guess. But the toadstools bright and yellow Tempt and poison many a fellow, With their flaunting beauty bright, The bold promise of delight. Taste and suffer, ache and burn; Generations do not learn! Nay, a little mushroom study Would not injure anybody. IN THE DARK In the dark I lie and think Of the glory in a day; Of the sunshine and the shade, All the color soft or gay. I can see it better now As I lie with curtained eyes. Oh, the rainbow and the moon; Oh, the opal of the skies! How the poppies glow and thrill, How the pigeon-feathers shine! I will weave them into dreams, I will make them ever mine. All the wonder of a wave, All the magic of a tree— I shall wear them in my soul When these eyes no longer see. GARDEN THOUGHTS Some of us are roses, Some of us are weeds; All of us began in clay, Silent little seeds. Some of us are flaunting, Some of us are shy; All of us have roots in earth, Faces to the sky. Some give joy by living, Some leave fragrance, dead; Thorns and spines and ugliness May yield balm or bread.