JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY A GARDEN-PIECE Among the flowers of summer-time she stood, And underneath the films and blossoms shone Her face, like some pomegranate strangely grown To ripe magnificence in solitude; The wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewed Her shoulders with her shining hair out blown, And dyed her breast with many a changing tone Of silvery green, and all the hues that brood Among the flowers; She raised her arm up for her dove to know That he might preen him on her lovely head; Then I, unseen, and rising on tiptoe, Bowed over the rose-barriers, and lo! Touched not her arm, but kissed her lips instead, Among the flowers! EDMUND GOSSE "HOW MANY FLOWERS ARE GENTLY MET" How many flowers are gently met Within my garden fair! The daffodil, the violet, And lilies dear are there. They fade and pass, the fleeting flowers, And brief their little light; They hold not Love's diviner hours, Nor Sower's human night. Tho' one by one their bloom depart, No change thy lover knows, For mine the fragrance of thy heart, O thou my perfect rose! GEORGE STERLING WITH A ROSE, TO BRUNHILDE Brunhilde, with the young Norn soul That has no peace, and grim as those That spun the thread of life, give heed: Peace is concealed in every rose. And in these petals peace I bring: A jewel clearer than the dew: A perfume subtler than the breath Of Spring with which it circles you. Peace I have found, asleep, awake, By many paths, on many a strand. Peace overspreads the sky with stars. Peace is concealed within your hand. And when at night I clasp it there I wonder how you never know The strength you shed from finger-tips: The treasure that consoles me so. Begin the art of finding peace, Beloved:--it is art, no less. Sometimes we find it hid beneath The orchards in their springtime dress: Sometimes one finds it in oak woods, Sometimes in dazzling mountain-snows; In books, sometimes. But pray begin By finding it within a rose. VACHEL LINDSAY "MY SOUL IS LIKE A GARDEN-CLOSE" My soul is like a garden-close Where marjoram and lilac grow, Where soft the scent of long ago Over the border lightly blows. Where sometimes homing winds at play Bear the faint fragrance of a rose-- My soul is like a garden-close Because you chanced to pass my way. THOMAS S. JONES, JR. A DREAM