I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked,-- The wall is high--higher than most-- And the green gate was locked; And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone; I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on, By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands, that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown's white folds among. I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do,--and, oh, She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow! She bent above my favorite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled,--there was no hint Of sadness in her face; She held her gown on either side, To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go; And where the wall is built in new, And is of ivy bare, She paused,--then opened and passed through A gate that once was there. EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY ROSES IN THE SUBWAY A wan-cheeked girl with faded eyes Came stumbling down the crowded car, Clutching her burden to her breast As though she held a star. Roses, I swear it! Red and sweet And struggling from her pinched white hands, Roses ... like captured hostages From far and fairy lands! The thunder of the rushing train Was like a hush.... The flower scent Breathed faintly on the stale, whirled air Like some dim sacrament-- I saw a garden stretching out And morning on it like a crown-- And o'er a bed of crimson bloom My mother ... stooping down. DANA BURNET THE GARDEN OVER-SEAS A GARDEN PRAYER _That we are mortals and on earth must dwell Thou knowest, Allah, and didst give us bread-- And remembering of our souls didst give us food of flowers-- Thy name be hallowed._ THOMAS WALSH IN THE GARDEN-CLOSE AT MEZRA In the garden-close at Mezra, When the cactus was in flower, We sat apart together Through the languid noonday hour. I was her Arab lover, (Of course it was all in play!) And I called her "Star-of-Twilight," And I called her "Dream-of-Day." She--has she quite forgotten? Soothly, I do not know If ever she tenderly opens The volume of Long Ago. But I--I can still remember Her lips like the cactus flower In the garden-close at Mezra At the languid noonday hour! CLINTON SCOLLARD THE CACTUS The scarlet flower, with never a sister-leaf, Stemless, springs from the edge of the Cactus-thorn: Thus from the rugged wounds of desperate grief A beautiful Thought, perfect and pure, is born.