Part 18 (1/2)

Thou little veil for so great mystery, When shall I penetrate all things and thee, And then look back? For this I must abide,

Till thou shalt grow and fold and be unfurled Literally between me and the world.

Then I shall drink from in beneath a spring,

And from a poet's side shall read his book.

O daisy mine, what will it be to look From G.o.d's side even of such a simple thing?

ALICE MEYNELL

A SOFT DAY

A soft day, thank G.o.d!

A wind from the south With a honeyed mouth; A scent of drenching leaves, Briar and beech and lime, White elder-flower and thyme And the soaking gra.s.s smells sweet, Crushed by my two bare feet, While the rain drips, Drips, drips, drips from the eaves.

A soft day, thank G.o.d!

The hills wear a shroud Of silver cloud; The web the spider weaves Is a glittering net; The woodland path is wet, And the soaking earth smells sweet Under my two bare feet, And the rain drips, Drips, drips, drips from the eaves.

W. M. LETTS

ARBUTUS

Not Spring's Thou art, but hers, Most cool, most virginal, Winter's, with thy faint breath, thy snows Rose-tinged.

ADELAIDE c.r.a.pSEY

JEWEL-WEED

Thou lonely, dew-wet mountain road, Traversed by toiling feet each day, What rare enchantment maketh thee Appear so gay?

Thy sentinels, on either hand Rise tamarack, birch, and balsam-fir, O'er the familiar shrubs that greet The wayfarer;

But here's a magic cometh new-- A joy to gladden thee, indeed: This pa.s.sionate out-flowering of The jewel-weed,

That now, when days are growing drear, As Summer dreams that she is old, Hangs out a myriad pleasure-bells Of mottled gold!

Thine only, these, thou lonely road!

Though hands that take, and naught restore, Rob thee of other treasured things, Thine these are, for

A fairy, cradled in each bloom, To all who pa.s.s the charmed spot Whispers in warning: ”Friend, admire,-- But touch me not!

”Leave me to blossom where I sprung, A joy untarnished shall I seem; Pluck me, and you dispel the charm And blur the dream!”

FLORENCE EARLE COATES

THE WALL

”_Something there is that doesn't like a wall._” (ROBERT FROST)

”Not like a wall?”

I sit above the meadow in the glowing fall Tracing the grey redoubt from square to square Which bound the acres harvest-ripe and fair,-- And wonder if it's true?