The bare boughs weave a net upon the sky To catch Love's wings and his fair body bruise; There are no flowers in the rosary-- No song-birds in the mournful avenues; Though on the sodden air not lightly breaks The elegy of Youth, whom love forsakes. Ah, Time! one flower of all my garden spare, One rose of all the roses, that in this I may possess my love's perfumed hair And all the crimson secrets of her kiss. Grant me one rose that I may drink its wine, And from her lips win the last anodyne. For I have learnt too many things to live, And I have loved too many things to die; But all my barren acres I would give For one red blossom of eternity, To animate the darkness and delight The spaces and the silences of night. But dreams are tender flowers that in their birth Are very near to death, and I shall reap, Who planted wonder, unavailing earth, Harsh thorns and miserable husks of sleep. I have had dreams, but have not conquered Time, And love shall vanish like an empty rhyme. RICHARD MIDDLETON "OH, TELL ME HOW MY GARDEN GROWS" Oh, tell me how my garden grows, Now I no more may labor there; Do still the lily and the rose Bloom on without my fostering care? Do peonies blush as deep with pride, The larkspurs burn as bright a blue, And velvet pansies stare as wide I wonder, as they used to do? The tender things that would not blow Unless I coaxed them, do they raise Their petals in a sturdy row, Forgetful, to the stranger's gaze? Or do they show a paler shade, And sigh a little in the wind For one whose sheltering presence made Their step-dame Nature less unkind? Oh, tell me how my garden grows, Where I no more may take delight, And if some dream of me it knows, Who dream of it by day and night. MILDRED HOWELLS HER GARDEN This was her dearest walk last year. Her hands Set all the tiny plants, and tenderly Pressed firm the unfamiliar soil; and she It was who watered them at evening time. She loved them; and I too, because of her. And now another June has come, while I Am walking in the shadow, sad, alone. Yet when I reach the rose-path that was hers, And breathe the fragrancy of bud and bloom, She stands beside; the murmur of the leaves, The well-remembered rustle of her gown, And low her whisper comes, "My dear! My dear!" This is her garden. Only she and I-- But always we--may walk its hallowed ways; And all the thoughts she planted in my heart, Sunned with her smile, and chastened with her tears, Again have blossomed--love's perennials. ELDREDGE DENISON THE LITTLE GHOST