Old phantoms haunt it of the long-ago; Old ghosts of old-time lovers and of dreams: Within the quiet sunlight there, meseems, I see them walking where those lilies blow. The hardy phlox sways to some garments' flow; The salvia there with sudden scarlet streams, Caught from some ribbon of some throat that gleams, Petunia fair, in flounce and furbelow. I seem to hear their whispers in each wind That wanders 'mid the flowers. There they stand! Among the shadows of that apple tree! They are not dead, whom still it keeps in mind, This garden, planted by some lovely hand That keeps it fragrant with its memory. MADISON CAWEIN THE GARDEN OF DREAMS My heart is a garden of dreams Where you walk when day is done, Fair as the royal flowers, Calm as the lingering sun. Never a drouth comes there, Nor any frost that mars, Only the wind of love Under the early stars,-- The living breath that moves Whispering to and fro, Like the voice of God in the dusk Of the garden long ago. BLISS CARMAN HOMESICK O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew, Far across the leagues of distance flies my heart to-night to you, And I see your stately lilies in the tender radiance gleam With a dim, mysterious splendor, like the angels of a dream! I can see the stealthy shadows creep along the ivied wall, And the bosky depths of verdure where the drooping vine-leaves fall, And the tall trees standing darkly with their crowns against the sky, While overhead the harvest moon goes slowly sailing by. I can see the trellised arbor, and the roses' crimson glow, And the lances of the larkspurs all glittering, row on row, And the wilderness of hollyhocks, where brown bees seek their spoil, And butterflies dance all day long, in glad and gay turmoil. O, the broad paths running straightly, north and south and east and west! O, the wild grape climbing sturdily to reach the oriole's nest! O, the bank where wild flowers blossom, ferns nod and mosses creep In a tangled maze of beauty over all the wooded steep! Just beyond the moonlit garden I can see the orchard trees, With their dark boughs overladen, stirring softly in the breeze, And the shadows on the greensward, and within the pasture bars The white sheep huddling quietly beneath the pallid stars. O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew, Far across the restless ocean flies my yearning heart to you, And I turn from storied castle, hoary fane, and ruined shrine, To the dear, familiar pleasaunce where my own white lilies shine--