All through the deep blue night The fountain sang alone; It sang to the drowsy heart Of the satyr carved in stone. The fountain sang and sang But the satyr never stirred-- Only the great white moon In the empty heaven heard. The fountain sang and sang While on the marble rim The milk-white peacocks slept, And their dreams were strange and dim. Bright dew was on the grass, And on the ilex, dew, The dreamy milk-white birds Were all a-glisten, too. The fountain sang and sang The things one cannot tell; The dreaming peacocks stirred And the gleaming dew-drops fell. SARA TEASDALE THE CHAMPA FLOWER Supposing I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother? You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet. I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work. When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me. When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading _Ramayana_, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading. But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child? When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story. "Where have you been, you naughty child?" "I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say then. RABINDRANATH TAGORE IN AN EGYPTIAN GARDEN Can it be winter otherwhere? Forsooth, it seems not so! The moonlight on the garden square Must be the only snow, For all about me, fragrant fair, The blooms of summer blow. Wine-lipped and beautiful and bland, The rose displays its dower; The heavy-scented citron and The stainless lily-tower; And whiter than a houri's hand, El Ful, the Arab flower. In purple silhouette a palm Lifts from a vine-wreathed plinth Against a sky whose cloudless calm Is hued like hyacinth; And echoes with a bulbul's psalm The jasmine labyrinth. In life's tumultuous ocean swell Here is a charmèd isle; I hear a late muezzin tell His holy tale the while, And like the faint notes of a bell The boat-songs of old Nile.