"Poet," said the plum tree's Singing white and green, "What avails your mooning, Can you fashion plums?" "Dreamer," crooned the wheatland's Rippling vocal sheen, "See my golden children Marching as with drums!" "By a god begotten," Hymned the sunning vine, "In my lyric children Purple music flows!" "Singer," breathed the rose bush, "Are they not divine?" "Have you any daughters Mighty as a rose?" ~Happy, happy mothers! Cruel, cruel words! Mine are ghostly children, Haunting all the ways; Latent in the plum bloom, Calling through the birds, Romping with the wheat brood In their shadow plays! Gotten out of star-glint, Mothered of the Moon; Nurtured with the rose scent, Wild elusive throng! Something of the vine's dream Crept into a tune; Something of the wheat-drone Echoed in a song.~ Once again the white fires Smoked among the plums; Once again the world-joy Burst the crimson bud; Golden-bannered wheat broods Marched to fairy drums; Once again the vineyard Felt the Bacchic blood. "Lo, he comes, -- the dreamer" -- Crooned the whitened boughs, "Quick with vernal love-fires -- Oh, at last he knows! See the bursting plum bloom There above his brows!" "Boaster!" breathed the rose bush, "'Tis a budding rose!" Droned the glinting acres, "In his soul, mayhap, Something like a wheat-dream Quickens into shape!" Sang the sunning vineyard, "Lo, the lyric sap Sets his heart a-throbbing Like a purple grape!" ~Mother of the wheatlands, Mother of the plums, Mother of the vineyard -- All that loves and grows -- Such a living glory To the dreamer comes, Mystic as a wheat-song, Mighty as a rose! Star-glint, moon-glow, Gathered in a mesh! Spring-hope, white fire By a kiss beguiled! Something of the world-joy Dreaming into flesh! Bird-song, vine-thrill Quickened to a child!~ Ambition. [Aline Kilmer] Kenton and Deborah, Michael and Rose, These are fine children as all the world knows, But into my arms in my dreams every night Come Peter and Christopher, Faith and Delight. Kenton is tropical, Rose is pure white, Deborah shines like a star in the night; Michael's round eyes are as blue as the sea, And nothing on earth could be dearer to me. But where is the baby with Faith can compare? What is the colour of Peterkin's hair? Who can make Christopher clear to my sight, Or show me the eyes of my daughter Delight? When people inquire I always just state: "I have four nice children and hope to have eight. Though the first four are pretty and certain to please, Who knows but the rest may be nicer than these?" The Gift. [Louis V. Ledoux] Let others give you wealth and love, And guard you while you live; I cannot set my gift above The gifts that others give. And yet the gift I give is good: In one man's eyes to see The worship of your maidenhood While children climb your knee. The Ancient Beautiful Things. [Fannie Stearns Davis]