And then some roses catch my eye, or may be some Sweet Williams Or pink and white and purple peals of Canterbury bells Or pencilled Violas that peep between the three-leaved trilliums Or red-hot pokers all aglow or poppies that cast spells-- And while I stare at each in turn I quite forget or pardon The blackbirds--and the blackguards--that keep robbing me of pie; For what do such things matter when I have so fair a garden And what is half so lovely as my garden in July? ROBERT ERNEST VERNÈDE "MID-SUMMER BLOOMS WITHIN OUR QUIET GARDEN-WAYS" Mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways; A golden peacock down the dusky alley strays; Gay flower petals strew --Pearl, emerald and blue-- The curving slopes of fragrant summer grass; The pools are clear as glass Between the white cups of the lily-flowers; The currants are like jewelled fairy-bowers; A dazzling insect worries the heart of a rose, Where a delicate fern a filmy shadow throws, And airy as bubbles the thousands of bees Over the young grape-clusters swarm as they please. The air is pearly, iridescent, pure; These profound and radiant noons mature, Unfolding even as odorous roses of clear light; Familiar roads to distances invite Like slow and graceful gestures, one by one Bound for the pearly-hued horizon and the sun. Surely the summer clothes, with all her arts, No other garden with such grace and power; And 'tis the poignant joy close-folded in our hearts That cries its life aloud from every flaming flower. EMILE VERHAEREN POPPIES O perfect flowers of sweet midsummer days, The season's emblems ye, As nodding lazily Ye kiss to sleep each breeze that near you strays, And soothe the tired gazer's sense With lulling surges of your softest somnolence. Like fairy lamps ye light the garden bed With tender ruby glow. Not any flowers that blow Can match the glory of your gleaming red; Such sunny-warm and dreamy hue Before ye lit your fires no garden ever knew. Bright are the blossoms of the scarlet sage, And bright the velvet vest On the nasturtium's breast; Bright are the tulips when they reddest rage, And bright the coreopsis' eye;-- But none of all can with your brilliant beauty vie. O soft and slumberous flowers, we love you well; Your glorious crimson tide The mossy walk beside Holds all the garden in its drowsy spell; And walking there we gladly bless Your queenly grace and all your languorous loveliness. JOHN RUSSELL HAYES THE GARDEN IN AUGUST