Then she whose gown is gold, and gold her hair, Swept down the golden steep straight sunbeam-stair, She lit the tulip-lamps, she lit the torch Of hollyhock beside the cottage porch. She dressed the honeysuckle in fringe of gold, She gave the king-cups fairy wealth to hold, She kissed St. John's wort till it opened wide, She set the yarrow by the river side. Then came the lady all whose robes are white: She made the pale buds blossom in delight, Set silver stars upon the jasmine's hair, And gave the stream white lily-buds to wear. She painted lilies white, and pearl-white phlox, White poppies, passion-flowers and gray-leaved stocks. Her pure kind touch redeemed the most forlorn, And even the vile petunia smiled, new-born. The dearest fairy of all--green is her gown-- She kissed the plane-trees in the tiresome town, She smoothed the pastures and the lawn's pale sheen, She decked the boughs with hangings fresh and green, She showed each flower the one and only way Its beauty of shape and colour to display; She taught the world to be a Paradise Of changing leaf and blade, for tired eyes. Then, one and all, they came where you were laid In your strait bed, my little lovely maid; The red-robed fairy kissed your lips, your face, The white-robed made your heart her dwelling-place. Into your eyes the green robed fairy smiled; The golden fairy touched your dreams, my child, And one, not named, but mightiest, made my Dear The innermost rose of the re-flowered year. May, 1898. BIRTHDAY TALK FOR A CHILD. (IRIS.) DADDY dear, I'm only four And I'd rather not be more: Four's the nicest age to be-- Two and two, or one and three. All I love is two and two, Mother, Fabian, Paul and you; All you love is one and three, Mother, Fabian, Paul and me. Give your little girl a kiss Because she learned and told you this. TO ROSAMUND. AND it is fair and very fair This maze of blossom and sweet air, This drift of orchard snows, This royal promise of the rose Wherein your young eyes see Such buds of scented joys to be. A gay green garden, softly fanned By the blythe breeze that blows To speed your ship of dreams to the enchanted land. But I--beyond the budding screen Of green and red and white and green, Behind the radiant show Of things that cling and grow and glow I see the plains where lie The hopes of days gone by: Gray breadths of melancholy, crossed By winds that coldly blow From that cold sea wherein my argosy is lost. FROM THE TUSCAN. WHEN in the west the red sun sank in glory, The cypress trees stood up like gold, fine gold; The mother told her little child the story Of the gold trees the heavenly gardens hold.