Part 16 (1/2)

_I know Where the wind flowers blow!

I know, I have been Where the wild honey bees Gather honey for their queen!_

_I would be A wild flower, Blue sky over me, For an hour ... an hour!

So the wild bees Should seek and discover me, And kiss me ... kiss me ... kiss me!

Not one of the dusky dears should miss me!_

_I know Where the wind flowers blow!

I know, I have been Where the little rabbits run In the warm, yellow sun!_

_Oh, to be a wild flower For an hour ... an hour ...

In the heather!

A bright flower, a wild flower, Blown by the weather!_

_I know, I have been Where the wild honey bees Gather Honey for their queen!_

IRENE RUTHERFORD MCLEOD

THE ROAD TO THE POOL

I know a road that leads from town, A pale road in a Watteau gown Of wild-rose sprays, that runs away All fragrant-sandaled, slim and gray.

It slips along the laurel grove And down the hill, intent to rove, And crooks an arm of shadow cool Around a willow-silvered pool.

I never travel very far Beyond the pool where willows are: There is a shy and native grace That hovers all about the place,

And resting there I hardly know Just where it was I meant to go, Contented like the road that dozes In panniered gown of briar roses.

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

THE WILD ROSE

Summer has crossed the fields, and where she trod Violets bloom; the dancing wind-flowers nod, And daisies blossom all across the sod.

She pa.s.sed the brook, and in their glad surprise The first forget-me-nots smiled at the skies And caught the very color of her eyes.

But, sleeping in the meadow-land, she pressed The dear wild rose so closely to her breast It stole her heart--and so she loves it best.

CHARLES BUXTON GOING

UP A HILL AND A HILL

Up a hill and a hill there's a sudden orchard-slope, And a little tawny field in the sun; There's a gray wall that coils like a twist of frayed-out rope, And gra.s.ses nodding news one to one.

Up a hill and a hill there's a windy place to stand, And between the apple-boughs to find the blue Of the sleepy summer sea, past the cliffs of orange sand, With the white charmed s.h.i.+ps sliding through.

Up a hill and a hill there's a little house as gray As a stone that the glaciers scored and stained; With a red rose by the door, and a tangled garden-way, And a face at the window, checker-paned.