There were three cherry trees once, Grew in a garden all shady; And there for delight of so gladsome a sight, Walked a most beautiful lady, Dreamed a most beautiful lady. Birds in those branches did sing, Blackbird and throstle and linnet, But she walking there was by far the most fair-- Lovelier than all else within it, Blackbird and throstle and linnet. But blossoms to berries do come, All hanging on stalks light and slender, And one long summer's day charmed that lady away, With vows sweet and merry and tender; A lover with voice low and tender. Moss and lichen the green branches deck; Weeds nod in its paths green and shady; Yet a light footstep seems there to wander in dreams, The ghost of that beautiful lady, That happy and beautiful lady. WALTER DE LA MARE OLD GARDENS The white rose tree that spent its musk For lovers' sweeter praise, The stately walks we sought at dusk, Have missed thee many days. Again, with once-familiar feet, I tread the old parterre-- But, ah, its bloom is now less sweet Than when thy face was there. I hear the birds of evening call; I take the wild perfume; I pluck a rose--to let it fall And perish in the gloom. ARTHUR UPSON THE BLOOMING OF THE ROSE What is it like, to be a rose? _Old Roses, softly_, "Try and see." Nay, I will tarry. Let me be In my green peacefulness and smile. I will stay here and dream awhile. 'Tis well for little buds to dream, Dream--dream--who knows-- Say, is it good to be a rose? Old roses, tell me! Is it good? _Old Roses, very softly_, "Good." I am afraid to be a rose! This little sphere wherein I wait, Curled up and small and delicate, Lets in a twilight of pure green, Wherein are dreams of night and morn And the sweet stillness of a world Where all things are that are unborn. _Old Roses_, "Better to be born." I cannot be a bud for long. My sheath is like a heart full blown, And I, the silence of a song Withdrawn into that heart alone, Well knowing that it shall be sung. Outside the great world comes and goes-- I think I doubt, to be a rose-- _Old Roses_, "Doubt? To be a Rose!" ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH THE GARDEN OF MNEMOSYNE There are no roses in the garden now, The summer birds have vanished oversea, The ashen keys hang rusty on the bough, Autumn's gold ensigns flame from tree to tree. Music and perfume sleep, and light is fled, Autumn's fine gold is faery gold, we know. Where shall we turn for joy when flowers are dead, When birds are silent, and the cold winds blow?