From corn-crib by the level pasture-lands To knoll where spruce and boulders hide the road I know it like a book, and when my heart Is waste and dry and hard and choked with weeds, I come here till it gently blooms again. For gardens yield rich fruits that will outlast The autumn and the winter of the soul, Richest to him who toils with loving hands. 'Tis delving thus we learn life's secrets told But to those favored few who dig for them. The Garden is an intimate and keeps In touch with us, yet hath its own high moods, And doth impose them on the mind of man To shame his pettiness. So do I love Its shimmering August mood keyed to the sun, A harlequin of color, birds and bloom. Nasturtiums, zinnias, balsams, salvias blaze By vivid dahlias; tiger-lilies burn In scarlet shadow of Jerusalem-cross; Beyond the queen-hydrangeas splendid rule Barbaric marigolds; chrysanthemums Outshine gladioli, and sunflowers flaunt Their crests of gold beneath the giant gourds. Within the arbor, script forgot, I muse, While gorgeous hollyhocks sway to and fro To mark the silences, and butterflies Flit in and out like some bright memory, And blinding poppies kindle slow watch-fires Before the golden altar of the sun. A spell lies on the Garden. Summer sits With finger on her lips as if she heard The steps of Autumn echo on the hill. A hush lies on the Garden. Summer dreams Of timid crocus thrust through drifted snow. GERTRUDE HUNTINGTON MCGIFFERT SUN, CARDINAL, AND CORN FLOWERS Whence gets Earth her gold for thee, O Sunflower? Her woven, yellow locks so fine Must go to make that gold of thine. And whence thy red beside the stream, O Cardinal-flower? She pricks some vein lies near her heart That thy rich, ruddy hue may start. And whence thy blue amid the corn, O Corn-flower? Her deep-blue eyes gleam out in glee, The glories of her work to see. HANNAH PARKER KIMBALL SUNFLOWERS My tall sunflowers love the sun, Love the burning August noons When the locust tunes its viol, And the cricket croons. When the purple night draws on, With its planets hung on high, And the attared winds of slumber Wander down the sky, Still my sunflowers love the sun, Keep their ward and watch and wait Till the rosy key of morning Opes the eastern gate. Then, when they have deeply quaffed From the brimming cups of dew, You can hear their golden laughter All the garden through. CLINTON SCOLLARD THE END OF SUMMER