May is building her house. From the dust of things She is making the songs and the flowers and the wings; From October's tossed and trodden gold She is making the young year out of the old; Yea! out of winter's flying sleet She is making all the summer sweet, And the brown leaves spurned of November's feet She is changing back again to spring's. RICHARD LE GALLIENNE THE MAGNOLIA Deep in the wood, of scent and song the daughter, Perfect and bright is the magnolia born; White as a flake of foam upon still water, White as soft fleece upon rough brambles torn. Hers is a cup a workman might have fashioned Of Grecian marble in an age remote. Hers is a beauty perfect and impassioned, As when a woman bares her rounded throat. There is a tale of how the moon, her lover, Holds her enchanted by some magic spell; Something about a dove that broods above her, Or dies within her breast--I cannot tell. I cannot say where I have heard the story, Upon what poet's lips; but this I know: Her heart is like a pearl's, or like the glory Of moonbeams frozen on the spotless snow. JOSÉ SANTOS CHOCANO (_Translated by John Pierrepont Rice_) "GO DOWN TO KEW IN LILAC-TIME" Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!). The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume, The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!) And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London. The Dorian nightingale is rare, and yet they say you'll hear him there At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo And golden-eyed _tu-whit_, _tu-whoo_ of owls that ogle London. For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorussing for London:-- _Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)._ ALFRED NOYES BEYOND