Belinda in her dimity, Whereon are wrought pink roses, Trips through the boxwood paths to me, A-down the garden-closes, As though a hundred roses came, ('Twas so I thought) to meet me, As though one rosebud said my name And bent its head to greet me. Belinda, in your rose-wrought dress You seemed the garden's growing; The tilt and toss o' you, no less Than wind-swayed posy blowing. 'Twas so I watched in sweet dismay, Lest in that happy hour, Sudden you'd stop and thrill and sway And turn into a flower. THEODOSIA GARRISON SWEETHEART-LADY De roses lean ter love her an' des won't leave de place; De climbin' mawnin'-glories sweet-smilin' in her face; De twinklin' pathway know her an' seem ter pass de word, An' de South Win' singin' ter her ter match de mockin'-bird. She sweetheart ter de Springtime, W'en de dreamy roses stir, An' Winter shine lak' Summer An' wear a rose fer her. "Sweetheart!" sing de Medder, w'en lak' de light she pass; De River take de tune up: "Make me yo' lookin'-glass!" But des who her true lover she never let 'em know; De Win' is sich a tell-tale, an' de River run on so! But Springtime come a-courtin' An' let de blossoms fall, An' Summer say: "I loves you!" She sweetheart ter 'em ALL! FRANK L. STANTON HEART'S GARDEN I have a garden filled with many flowers: The mignonette, the sweet-pea, and the rose, Daisies, and daffodils, whose color glows The fairer for the verdure which embowers Their beauty, and sets forth their hidden powers To charm my heart, whenever at the close Of day's dull hurry I would seek repose In my still garden through the darkening hours. Thus, Lady, do I keep a place apart, Wherein my love for you cloistered shall be, Far from the rattle of the city cart, Even as my garden, where daily I may see The flowers of your love, and none from me May win the hidden secret of my heart. NORREYS JEPHSON O'CONOR A ROSE LOVER Do thou, my rose, incline Thy heart to mine. If love be real Ah, whisper, whisper low That I at last may know. Quick! breathe it now! A sigh,--a tear,--a vow: Oh, any lightest thing Its cadences to sing That loved am I, and not, Ah, not forgot! FREDERIC A. WHITING SONNET