From the velvet screening of a great gray cloud The moon floats swiftly, white and open-browed, Flooding cloud and water with her shining trail, Till the night shrinks, sighing, behind the radiant veil; The night, with her shy soul, to the deep wood slips-- Her shy soul, her high soul, shrine of all the stars; And you fly, like the sigh from her tender lips, Athwart the wavering shadows, beating the silver bars; You fleet in the meeting of the dark and bright, My light moth, my white moth, spark from the soul of night. MARION COUTHOUY SMITH THE BUTTERFLY O winged brother on the harebell, stay-- Was God's hand very pitiful, the hand That wrought thy beauty at a dream's demand? _Yes, knowing I love so well the flowery way, He did not fling me to the world astray-- He did not drop me to the weary sand, But bore me gently to a leafy land: Tinting my wings, He gave me to the day._ Oh, chide no more my doubting, my despair! I will go back now to the world of men. Farewell, I leave thee to the world of air, Yet thou hast girded up my heart again; For He that framed the impenetrable plan, And keeps His word with thee, will keep with man. EDWIN MARKHAM THE SECRET O, little bird, you sing As if all months were June; Pray tell me ere you go The secret of your tune? "I have no hidden word To tell, nor mystic art; I only know I sing The song within my heart!" ARTHUR WALLACE PEACH THE GARDENS OF YESTERDAY THE GARDEN _Old gardens have a language of their own, And mine sweet speech to linger in the heart. A goodly place it is and primly spaced, With straight box-bordered paths and squares of bloom. Bay-trees by rows of antique urns tell tales Of one who loved the gardens Dante loved. Magnolias edge the placid lily-pool And flank the sagging seat, whence vista leads To blaze of rhododendrons banked in green. Azaleas by the scarlet quince flame up Against the lustrous grape-vines trellised high To pigeon-cote and old brick wall where hide First snowdrops and the bravest violets. A place of solitudes whose silences Enfold the heart as an unquiet bird._ GERTRUDE HUNTINGTON MCGIFFERT OLD HOMES Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens; Their old rock fences, that our day inherits; Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens; Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits; Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.