Part 27 (1/2)

I went out to the hazel wood Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream, And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor, I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And some one called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl, With apple-blossom in her hair, Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled gra.s.s, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

W. B. YEATS

THE THREE CHERRY TREES

There were three cherry trees once, Grew in a garden all shady; And there for delight of so gladsome a sight, Walked a most beautiful lady, Dreamed a most beautiful lady.

Birds in those branches did sing, Blackbird and throstle and linnet, But she walking there was by far the most fair-- Lovelier than all else within it, Blackbird and throstle and linnet.

But blossoms to berries do come, All hanging on stalks light and slender, And one long summer's day charmed that lady away, With vows sweet and merry and tender; A lover with voice low and tender.

Moss and lichen the green branches deck; Weeds nod in its paths green and shady; Yet a light footstep seems there to wander in dreams, The ghost of that beautiful lady, That happy and beautiful lady.

WALTER DE LA MARE

OLD GARDENS

The white rose tree that spent its musk For lovers' sweeter praise, The stately walks we sought at dusk, Have missed thee many days.

Again, with once-familiar feet, I tread the old parterre-- But, ah, its bloom is now less sweet Than when thy face was there.

I hear the birds of evening call; I take the wild perfume; I pluck a rose--to let it fall And perish in the gloom.

ARTHUR UPSON

THE BLOOMING OF THE ROSE

What is it like, to be a rose?

_Old Roses, softly_, ”Try and see.”

Nay, I will tarry. Let me be In my green peacefulness and smile.

I will stay here and dream awhile.

'Tis well for little buds to dream, Dream--dream--who knows-- Say, is it good to be a rose?

Old roses, tell me! Is it good?

_Old Roses, very softly_, ”Good.”

I am afraid to be a rose!

This little sphere wherein I wait, Curled up and small and delicate, Lets in a twilight of pure green, Wherein are dreams of night and morn And the sweet stillness of a world Where all things are that are unborn.

_Old Roses_, ”Better to be born.”

I cannot be a bud for long.