Volume Iii Part 32 (1/2)
”IN GREEN OLD GARDENS”
In green old gardens, hidden away From sight of revel and sound of strife, Where the bird may sing out his soul ere he die, Nor fears for the night, so he lives his day; Where the high red walls, which are growing gray With their lichen and moss embroideries, Seem sadly and sternly to shut out life, Because it is often as red as they;
Where even the bee has time to glide (Gathering gayly his honey's store) Right to the heart of the old-world flowers-- China-asters and purple stocks, Dahlias and tall red hollyhocks, Laburnums raining their golden showers, Columbines prim of the folded core, And lupins, and larkspurs, and ”London pride”;
Where the heron is waiting amongst the reeds, Grown tame in the silence that reigns around, Broken only, now and then, By shy woodp.e.c.k.e.r or noisy jay, By the far-off watch-dog's m.u.f.fled bay; But where never the purposeless laughter of men, Or the seething city's murmurous sound Will float up over the river-weeds.
Here may I live what life I please, Married and buried out of sight,-- Married to pleasure, and buried to pain,-- Hidden away amongst scenes like these, Under the fans of the chestnut trees; Living my child-life over again, With the further hope of a fallen delight, Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees.
In green old gardens, hidden away From sight of revel and sound of strife,-- Here have I leisure to breathe and move, And to do my work in a n.o.bler way; To sing my songs, and to say my say; To dream my dreams, and to love my love; To hold my faith, and to live my life, Making the most of its shadowy day.
Violet Fane [1843-1905]
A BENEDICTINE GARDEN
Through all the wind-blown aisles of May, Faint bells of perfume swing and fall.
Within this apple-petalled wall (A gray east, flecked with rosy day) The pink laburnum lays her cheek In married, matchless, lovely bliss, Against her golden mate, to seek His airy kiss.
Tulips, in faded splendor drest, Brood o'er their beds, a slumbrous gloom.
Dame Peony, red and ripe with bloom, Swells the silk housing of her breast.
The Lilac, drunk to ecstasy, Breaks her full flagons on the air, And drenches home the reeling bee Who found her fair.
O cowled Legion of the Cross, What solemn pleasantry is thine, Vowing to seek the life divine Through abnegation and through loss!
Men but make monuments of sin Who walk the earth's ambitious round; Thou hast the richer realm within This garden ground.
No woman's voice takes sweeter note Than chanting of this plumed choir.
No jewel ever wore the fire Hung on a dewdrop's quivering throat.
A ruddier pomp and pageantry Than world's delight o'erfleets thy sod; And choosing this, thou hast in fee The peace of G.o.d.
Alice Brown [1857-
AN AUTUMN GARDEN
My tent stands in a garden Of aster and golden-rod, Tilled by the rain and the suns.h.i.+ne, And sown by the hand of G.o.d,-- An old New England pasture Abandoned to peace and time, And by the magic of beauty Reclaimed to the sublime.
About it are golden woodlands Of tulip and hickory; On the open ridge behind it You may mount to a glimpse of sea,-- The far-off, blue, Homeric Rim of the world's great s.h.i.+eld, A border of boundless glamor For the soul's familiar field.
In purple and gray-wrought lichen The boulders lie in the sun; Along its gra.s.sy footpath, The white-tailed rabbits run.
The crickets work and chirrup Through the still afternoon; And the owl calls at twilight Under the frosty moon.
The odorous wild grape clambers Over the tumbling wall, And through the autumnal quiet The chestnuts open and fall.
Sharing time's freshness and fragrance, Part of the earth's great soul, Here man's spirit may ripen To wisdom serene and whole.