Down this pathway, through the shade, Lightly tripped the dainty maid, In her eyes the smile of June, On her lips some old sweet tune. Through yon ragged rows of box, By that awkward clump of phlox, To her favorite pansy bed Like a ray of light, she sped. Satin slippers trim and neat Gleamed upon her slender feet; Round her ankles, deftly tied, Ribbons crossed from side to side, Here her pinks, old fashioned, fair, Breathed their fragrance on the air; There her fluttering azure gown Shook the poppy's petals down. Here a rose, with fond caress, Stooped to touch a truant tress From her fillet struggling free, Scorning its captivity. There a bed of rue was set With an edge of mignonette, And the spicy bergamot Meshed the frail forget-me-not. Honeysuckles, hollyhocks, Bachelor's buttons, four-o'clocks, Marigolds and blue-eyed grass Curtsied when the maid did pass. Now the braggart weeds have spread Through the paths she loved to tread, And the creeping moss has grown O'er yon shattered dial-stone. Still beside the ruined walks Some old flowers, on sturdy stalks, Dream of her whose happy eyes Roam the fields of paradise. JAMES B. KENYON IN MY MOTHER'S GARDEN There were many flowers in my mother's garden, Sword-leaved gladiolas, taller far than I, Sticky-leaved petunias, pink and purple flaring, Velvet-painted pansies smiling at the sky; Scentless portulacas crowded down the borders, White and scarlet-petalled, rose and satin-gold, Clustered sweet alyssum, lacy-white and scented, Sprays of gray-green lavender to keep 'til you were old. In my mother's garden were green-leaved hiding-places, Nooks between the lilacs--oh, a pleasant place to play! Still my heart can hide there, still my eyes can dream it, Though the long years lie between and I am far away; When the world is hard now, when the city's clanging Tires my eyes and tires my heart and dust lies everywhere, I can dream the peace still of the soft wind's blowing, I can be a child still and hide my heart from care. Lord, if still that garden blossoms in the sunlight, Grant that children laugh there now among its green and gold-- Grant that little hearts still hide its memoried sweetness, Locking one bright dream away for light when they are old! MARGARET WIDDEMER TO THE SWEETWILLIAM