In a black oak chest all carven, We found it laid, Still faintly sweet of Lavender, An old brocade. With that perfume came a vision, A garden fair, Enclosed by great yew hedges; A Lady there, Is culling fresh blown lavender, And singing goes Up and down the alleys green-- A human rose. The sun glints on her auburn hair And brightens, too, The silver buckles that adorn Each little shoe. Her 'kerchief and her elbow sleeves Are cobweb lace; Her gown, it is our old brocade, Worn with a grace. Methinks I hear its soft frou-frou, And see the sheen Of its dainty pink moss-rose buds, Their leaves soft green, On a ground of palest shell pink, In garlands laid; But long dead the Rose who wore it-- The old brocade. M. G. BRERETON STAIRWAYS AND GARDENS Gardens and Stairways; those are words that thrill me Always with vague suggestions of delight. Stairways and Gardens. Mystery and grace Seem part of their environment; they fill all space With memories of things veiled from my sight In some far place. Gardens. The word is overcharged with meaning; It speaks of moonlight, and a closing door; Of birds at dawn--of sultry afternoons. Gardens. I seem to see low branches screening A vine-roofed arbor with a leaf-tiled floor Where sunlight swoons. Stairways. The word winds upward to a landing, Then curves and vanishes in space above. Lights fall, lights rise; soft lights that meet and blend. Stairways; and some one at the bottom standing Expectantly with lifted looks of love. Then steps descend. Gardens and Stairways. They belong with song-- With subtle scents of perfume, myrrh and musk-- With dawn and dusk--with youth, romance, and mystery, And times that were and times that are to be. Stairways and Gardens. ELLA WHEELER WILCOX OLD MOTHERS I love old mothers--mothers with white hair, And kindly eyes, and lips grown softly sweet With murmured blessings over sleeping babes. There is a something in their quiet grace That speaks the calm of Sabbath afternoons; A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyes That far outreaches all philosophy. Time, with caressing touch, about them weaves The silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age, While all the echoes of forgotten songs Seem joined to lend a sweetness to their speech. Old mothers!--as they pace with slow-timed step, Their trembling hands cling gently to youth's strength; Sweet mothers!--as they pass, one sees again Old garden-walks, old roses, and old loves. CHARLES ROSS PASTURES AND HILLSIDES SONG FROM "APRIL"