Mute, said I? They are seldom thus; They whisper each to each, And each and all of them to us, In varied forms of speech. "Be serious," the solemn pine Is saying overhead; "Be beautiful," the elm-tree fine Has always finely said; "Be quick to feel," the aspen still Repeats the whole day long; While, from the green slope of the hill, The oak-tree adds, "Be strong." When with my burden, as I hear Their distant voices call, I rise, and listen, and draw near, "Be patient," say they all. SAMUEL VALENTINE COLE THE POPLARS My poplars are like ladies trim, Each conscious of her own estate; In costume somewhat over prim, In manner cordially sedate, Like two old neighbours met to chat Beside my garden gate. My stately old aristocrats-- I fancy still their talk must be Of rose-conserves and Persian cats, And lavender and Indian tea;-- I wonder sometimes as I pass If they approve of me. I give them greeting night and morn, I like to think they answer, too, With that benign assurance born When youth gives age the reverence due, And bend their wise heads as I go As courteous ladies do. Long may you stand before my door, Oh, kindly neighbours garbed in green, And bend with rustling welcome o'er The many friends who pass between; And where the little children play Look down with gracious mien. THEODOSIA GARRISON TREES I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree. JOYCE KILMER THE LOST GARDENS OF THE HEART AS IN A ROSE-JAR _As in a rose-jar filled with petals sweet Blown long ago in some old garden place, Mayhap, where you and I, a little space Drank deep of love and knew that love was fleet-- Or leaves once gathered from a lost retreat By one who never will again retrace Her silent footsteps--one, whose gentle face Was fairer than the roses at her feet;_ _So, deep within the vase of memory I keep my dust of roses fresh and dear As in the days before I knew the smart Of time and death. Nor aught can take from me The haunting fragrance that still lingers here-- As in a rose-jar, so within the heart!_ THOMAS S. JONES, JR. IN AN OLD GARDEN