Volume Iii Part 32 (2/2)

Shall we not grow with the asters?-- Never reluctant nor sad, Not counting the cost of being, Living to dare and be glad.

Shall we not lift with the crickets A chorus of ready cheer, Braving the frost of oblivion, Quick to be happy here?

The deep red cones of the sumach And the woodbine's crimson sprays Have bannered the common roadside For the pageant of pa.s.sing days.

These are the oracles Nature Fills with her holy breath, Giving them glory of color, Transcending the shadow of death.

Here in the sifted sunlight A spirit seems to brood On the beauty and worth of being, In tranquil, instinctive mood; And the heart, athrob with gladness Such as the wise earth knows, Wells with a full thanksgiving For the gifts that life bestows:

For the ancient and virile nurture Of the teeming primordial ground, For the splendid gospel of color, The rapt revelations of sound; For the morning-blue above us And the rusted gold of the fern, For the chickadee's call to valor Bidding the faint-heart turn;

For fire and running water, Snowfall and summer rain; For sunsets and quiet meadows, The fruit and the standing grain; For the solemn hour of moonrise Over the crest of trees, When the mellow lights are kindled In the lamps of the centuries.

For those who wrought aforetime, Led by the mystic strain To strive for the larger freedom, And live for the greater gain; For plenty and peace and playtime, The homely goods of earth, And for rare immaterial treasures Accounted of little worth;

For art and learning and friends.h.i.+p, Where beneficent truth is supreme, Those everlasting cities Built on the hills of dream; For all things growing and goodly That foster this life, and breed The immortal flower of wisdom Out of the mortal seed.

But most of all for the spirit That can not rest nor bide In stale and sterile convenience, Nor safety proven and tried, But still inspired and driven, Must seek what better may be, And up from the loveliest garden Must climb for a glimpse of sea.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]

UNGUARDED

The Mistress of the Roses Is haply far away, And through her garden closes What strange intruders stray.

See on its rustic spindles The sundrop's amber fire!

And the goldenrod enkindles The embers on its spire.

The dodder's s.h.i.+ning tangle From the meadow brook steals in, Where in this shadowed angle The pale lace-makers spin.

Here's Black-Eyed Susan weeping Into exotic air, And Bouncing Bet comes creeping Back to her old parterre.

Now in this pleasant weather-- So sweetly reconciled-- They dwell and dream together, The kin of court and wild.

Ada Foster-Murray [1857-1936]

THE DESERTED GARDEN

I mind me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun, With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted.

The beds and walks were vanished quite; And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, The greenest gra.s.ses Nature laid To sanctify her right.

I called the place my wilderness; For no one entered there but I; The sheep looked in, the gra.s.s to espy, And pa.s.sed it ne'ertheless.

The trees were interwoven wild, And spread their boughs enough about To keep both sheep and shepherd out, But not a happy child.

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