With a vague, half-startled wonder if some night in Paradise, From the battlements of heaven I shall turn my longing eyes All the dim, resplendent spaces and the mazy stardrifts through To my garden lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew! JULIA C. R. DORR THE WAYS OF TIME As butterflies are but winged flowers, Half sorry for their change, who fain, So still and long they live on leaves, Would be thought flowers again.-- E'en so my thoughts, that should expand, And grow to higher themes above, Return like butterflies to lie On the old things I love. WILLIAM H. DAVIES A MIDSUMMER GARDEN There is a little garden-close, Girdled by golden apple trees, That through the long sweet summer hours Is haunted by the hum of bees. The poppy tosses here its torch, And the tall bee-balm flaunts its fire, And regally the larkspur lifts The slender azure of its spire. And from the phlox and mignonette Rich attars drift on every hand; And when star-vestured twilight comes The pale moths weave a saraband. And crickets in the aisles of grass With their clear fifing pierce the hush; And somewhere you may hear anear The passion of the hermit-thrush. It is a place where dreams convene, Dreams of the dead years gone astray, Of love and loveliness borne back From some forgotten yesterday. It is a memory-hallowed spot Where joy assumes its vernal guise, And two walk silent side by side, Youth's glory shining in their eyes. CLINTON SCOLLARD THE WHITE ROSE This is the spirit flower, The ghost of an old regret; All night she stands in the garden-close, And her face with tears is wet. But I love the pale white rose, For she always seems to me A pallid nun who dreams all day Of a distant memory. Alas! how well I know That every garden spot Is haunted by a gentle ghost Who will not be forgot. In the garden of the heart, Ere the sun of life is set, O many a wild rose blooms and dreams Of many an old regret! CHARLES HANSON TOWNE A HAUNTED GARDEN Between the moss and stone The lonely lilies rise; Wasted and overgrown The tangled garden lies. Weeds climb about the stoop And clutch the crumbling walls; The drowsy grasses droop-- The night wind falls. The place is like a wood; No sign is there to tell Where rose and iris stood That once she loved so well. Where phlox and asters grew, A leafless thornbush stands, And shrubs that never knew Her tender hands....