His Garden! His bright candelabra trees En fête. His lilacs steeped in joy! His sky Limpid and blue! The same flecked shadows lie Athwart this path he paced. His reveries Float in the air. His moods, his ecstasies Still linger charmed. Pale butterflies flit by-- Were one his soul it had not found on high Banquet more choice than those infinities He daily knew. And now no one to hear The hovering hours, the singing grass, to feel The wrinkles of the soul smooth out, to see God's shadow bend down from eternity-- His garden empty! Yet I gently steal Lest I disturb his dreams still smiling near. GERTRUDE HUNTINGTON MCGIFFERT EDEN-HUNGER O that a nest, my mate! were once more ours, Where we, by vain and barren change untutored, Could have grave friendships with wise trees and flowers, And live the great, green life of field and orchard! From the cold birthday of the daffodils, E'en to that listening pause that is November, O to confide in woods, confer with hills, And then--then, to that palmland you remember, Fly swift, where seas that brook not Winter's rule Are one vast violet breaking into lilies; There where we spent our first strange wedded Yule, In the far, golden, fire-hearted Antilles. WILLIAM WATSON THE GARDEN AT BEMERTON FOR A FLYLEAF OF HERBERT'S POEMS Year after year, from dusk to dusk, How sweet this English garden grows, Steeped in two centuries' sun and musk, Walled from the world in gray repose, Harbor of honey-freighted bees, And wealthy with the rose. Here pinks with spices in their throats Nod by the bitter marigold; Here nightingales with haunting notes, When west and east with stars are bold, From out the twisted hawthorn-trees, Sing back the weathers old. All tuneful winds do down it pass; The leaves a sudden whiteness show, And delicate noises fill the grass; The only flakes its spaces know Are petals blown off briers long, And heaped on blades below. Ah! dawn and dusk, year after year, 'Tis more than these that keeps it rare! We see the saintly Master here, Pacing along the alleys fair, And catch the throbbing of a song Across the amber air! LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE IN AN OXFORD GARDEN As one whose road winds upward turns his face Unto the valleys where he late hath stood, Leaning upon his staff in peace to brood On many a beauty of the distant place, So I in this cool garden pause a space, Reviewing many things in many a mood, Accumulating friends in solitude From the assembly of my thoughts and days. ARTHUR UPSON THE HOMELY GARDEN "GRANDMOTHER'S GATHERING BONESET"