But often in the twilight When birds and gardens sleep I feel her presence with me Her arms about me creep. And when the ghosts of Summer With the dead roses talk, I hear her softly sobbing Along the moonlit walk. I never can forget her So intimate were we! But Sorrow, in my garden Abides no more with me. MAY RILEY SMITH MOTH-FLOWERS The pale moth Trembles in the white moonlight; Thus my heart trembles with love! The rose petals fall-- The red petals of my heart; Oh, the breath of love! Cool, sweet tears Of honey, the jasmine weeps; Burning fall the tears of love. Oh, how bitter Is the White Poppy, Death; There are no more dreams of love. JEANNE ROBERT FOSTER ALCHEMY I lift my heart as spring lifts up A yellow daisy to the rain; My heart will be a lovely cup Altho' it holds but pain. For I shall learn from flower and leaf That color every drop they hold, To change the lifeless wine of grief To living gold. SARA TEASDALE FLOWERS IN THE DARK Late in the evening, when the room had grown Too hot and tiresome with its flaring light And noisy voices, I stole out alone Into the darkness of the summer night. Down the long garden-walk I slowly went, A little wind was stirring in the trees; I only saw the whitest of the flowers, And I was sorry that the earlier hours Of that fair evening had been so ill spent, Because I said, "I am content with these Dear friends of mine who only speak to me With their delicious fragrance, and who tell To me their gracious welcome silently." The leaves that touch my hand with dew are wet; I find the tall white lilies I love well. I linger as I pass the mignonette, And what surprise could clearer be than this: To find my sweet rose waiting with a kiss! SARAH ORNE JEWETT WELCOME There is a hillside garden that their tender hands have tended, Below a house that holds for me a shrine of joy and light. And there beneath a cloudless sun when June is warm and splendid I see them coming home to me, three girls in garments white. Alice with lilies in her hands, and little dark Dolores Showing her glowing marigolds; and Iris last of all Under the arbor by the wall of purple morning-glories, Bringing my crimson ramblers back that sought to scale the wall. Alice with smiles along her lips; Dolores still and tender; Iris whose eyes can tell me more than tongue shall ever say; They offer to my open arms their bodies soft and slender, Bringing the best of summer here, they garlanded to-day.