I wish that you would never take my mother, for I should wish to tend her as a child and put her to sleep with kisses, when somewhat old she may need the sun. R. AREVALO MARTINEZ MY FLOWER-ROOM My flower-room is such a little place, Scarce twenty feet by nine, yet in that space I have met God; yea, many a radiant hour Have talked with Him, the All-Embracing Cause, About His laws. And he has shown me, in each vine and flower, Such miracles of power That day by day this flower-room of mine Has come to be a shrine. Fed by the self-same soil and atmosphere, Pale, tender shoots appear, Rising to greet the light in that sweet room. One speeds to crimson bloom, One slowly creeps to unassuming grace, One climbs, one trails, One drinks the light and moisture, One exhales. Up through the earth together, stem by stem, Two plants push swiftly in a floral race, Till one sends forth a blossom like a gem, And one gives only fragrance. In a seed, So small it scarce is felt within the hand, Lie hidden such delights Of scents and sights, When by the elements of Nature freed, As paradise must have at its command. From shapeless roots and ugly bulbous things, What gorgeous beauty springs! Such infinite variety appears, A hundred artists in a hundred years Could never copy from a floral world The marvels that in leaf and bud lie curled. Nor could the most colossal mind of man Create one little seed of plant or vine Without assistance from the First Great Plan, Without the aid divine. Who but a God Could draw from light and moisture, heat and cold, And fashion in earth's mold, A multitude of blooms to deck one sod? Who but a God? Not one man knows Just why the bloom and fragrance of the rose, Or how its tints were blent; Or why the white camellia, without scent, Up through the same soil grows; Or how the daisy and the violet And blades of grass first on wild meadows met. Not one, not one man knows, The wisest but suppose. This flower-room of mine Has come to be a shrine, And I go hence Each day with larger faith and reverence. ELLA WHEELER WILCOX "VESTURED AND VEILED WITH TWILIGHT" Vestured and veiled with twilight, Lulled in the winter's ease, Dim, and happy, and silent, My garden dreams by its trees. Urn of the sprayless fountain, Glimmering nymph and faun, Gleam through the dark-plumed cedar, Fade on the dusky lawn. Here is no stir of summer, Here is no pulse of spring; Never a bud to burgeon, Never a bird to sing. Dreams--and the kingdom of quiet! Only the dead leaves lie Over the fallen roses Under the shrouded sky.