I'm going out to clean the pasture spring; I'll only stop to rake the leaves away (And wait to watch the water clear, I may): I sha'n't be gone long.--You come too. I'm going out to fetch the little calf That's standing by the mother. It's so young, It totters when she licks it with her tongue. I sha'n't be gone long.--You come too. ROBERT FROST THE THISTLE Ha, prickle-armèd knight, How oft the world hath cursed thee, Thou pestilence of Earth, The beldame who hath nursed thee! Hath hellish Proserpine Her needs lent to arm thee That mischief-loving gods, Pricked sorely, may not harm thee? Or hath the mirthful Love Presented thee his pinions To dress thy tiny seeds, The curse of man's dominions! Thou like a maiden art Who best can find protection Employed at needlework From idleness' infection. And like a prude thou art When he who loves embraces; Thou dost repel with thorns And she with sharper phrases. And like the wraith thou art Wherewith my heart is haunted; Ye both take most delight Where ye the least are wanted. MILES M. DAWSON CLOVER Little masters, hat in hand, Let me in your presence stand, Till your silence solve for me This your threefold mystery. Tell me--for I long to know-- How, in darkness there below, Was your fairy fabric spun, Spread and fashioned, three in one. Did your gossips gold and blue, Sky and Sunshine, choose for you, Ere your triple forms were seen, Suited liveries of green? Can ye--if ye dwelt indeed Captives of a prison seed-- Like the Genie, once again Get you back into the grain? Little masters, may I stand In your presence, hat in hand, Waiting till you solve for me This your threefold mystery? JOHN B. TABB WILD GARDENS On the ripened grass is a bloomy mist Of silver and rose and amethyst Where the long June wave has run. There are glints of copper and tarnished brass, And hyacinthine flames that pass From the green fires of the sun. This web of a thousand gleams and glows Was woven silently out of the snows And the patient shine and rain. It was fashioned cunningly day by day From the silken spear to the pollened spray With its folded sheaths of grain. Oh, garden of grasses deep and wild, So dear to the vagrant and the child And the singer of an hour. To the wayworn soul you give your balm, Your cup of peace, your stringèd psalm, Your grace of bud and flower. ADA FOSTER MURRAY THE DANDELION