Part 13 (2/2)

I will go back now to the world of men.

Farewell, I leave thee to the world of air, Yet thou hast girded up my heart again; For He that framed the impenetrable plan, And keeps His word with thee, will keep with man.

EDWIN MARKHAM

THE SECRET

O, little bird, you sing As if all months were June; Pray tell me ere you go The secret of your tune?

”I have no hidden word To tell, nor mystic art; I only know I sing The song within my heart!”

ARTHUR WALLACE PEACH

THE GARDENS OF YESTERDAY

THE GARDEN

_Old gardens have a language of their own, And mine sweet speech to linger in the heart.

A goodly place it is and primly s.p.a.ced, With straight box-bordered paths and squares of bloom.

Bay-trees by rows of antique urns tell tales Of one who loved the gardens Dante loved.

Magnolias edge the placid lily-pool And flank the sagging seat, whence vista leads To blaze of rhododendrons banked in green.

Azaleas by the scarlet quince flame up Against the l.u.s.trous grape-vines trellised high To pigeon-cote and old brick wall where hide First snowdrops and the bravest violets.

A place of solitudes whose silences Enfold the heart as an unquiet bird._

GERTRUDE HUNTINGTON MCGIFFERT

OLD HOMES

Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens; Their old rock fences, that our day inherits; Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens; Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits; Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.

I see them gray among their ancient acres, Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,-- Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers, Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,-- Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.

Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies-- Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers-- Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies, And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers, And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.

I love their orchards where the gay woodp.e.c.k.e.r Flits, flas.h.i.+ng o'er you, like a winged jewel; Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker With half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal, The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodp.e.c.k.e.r.

Old homes! Old hearts! Upon my soul forever Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter; Like love they touch me, through the years that sever, With simple faith; like friends.h.i.+p, draw me after The dreamy patience that is theirs forever.

MADISON CAWEIN

A PURITAN LADY'S GARDEN

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