And I dream that these garden-closes With their shade and their sun-flecked sod And their lilies and bowers of roses, Were laid by the hand of God. The kiss of the sun for pardon, The song of the birds for mirth,-- One is nearer God's heart in a garden Than anywhere else on earth. DOROTHY FRANCES GURNEY THE LILIES Ever the garden has a spiritual word: In the slow lapses of unnoticed time It drops from heaven, or upward learns to climb, Breathing an earthly sweetness, as a bird Is in the porches of the morning heard; So, in the garden, flower to flower will chime, And with the music thought and feeling rhyme, And the hushed soul is with new glory stirred. Beauty is silent,--through the summer day Sleeps in her gold,--O wondrous sunlit gold, Frosting the lilies, virginal array! Green, full-leaved walls the fragrant sculpture hold, Warm, orient blooms!--how motionless are they-- Speechless--the eternal loveliness untold! GEORGE E. WOODBERRY BARTER Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be. SARA TEASDALE SONNET Drop me the seed, that I, even in my brain, May be its nourishing earth. No mortal knows From what immortal granary comes the grain, Nor how the earth conspires to make the rose; But from the dust and from the wetted mud Comes help, given or taken; so with me Deep in my brain the essence of my blood Shall give it stature until Beauty be. It will look down, even as the burning flower Smiles upon June, long after I am gone. Dust-footed Time will never tell its hour, Through dusty Time its rose will draw men on, Through dusty Time its beauty shall make plain Man, and, Without, a spirit scattering grain. JOHN MASEFIELD THE TILLING