Part 28 (1/2)

JAMES TERRY WHITE

IN MEMORY'S GARDEN

There is a garden in the twilight lands Of Memory, where troops of b.u.t.terflies Flutter adown the cypress paths, and bands Of flowers mysterious droop their drowsy eyes.

There through the silken hush come footfalls faint And hurried through the vague parterres, and sighs Whispering of rapture or of sweet complaint Like ceaseless parle of bees and b.u.t.terflies.

And by one lonely pathway steal I soon To find the flowerings of the old delight Our hearts together knew--when lo, the moon Turns all the cypress alleys into white.

THOMAS WALSH

SERENADE

Dark is the iris meadow, Dark is the ivory tower, And lightly the young moth's shadow Sleeps on the pa.s.sion-flower.

Gone are our day's red roses.

So lovely and lost and few, But the first star uncloses A silver bud in the blue.

Night, and a flame in the embers Where the seal of the years was set,-- When the almond-bough remembers How shall my heart forget?

MARJORIE L. C. PICKTHALL

”WHAT HEART BUT FEARS A FRAGRANCE?”

What heart but fears a fragrance?

Alien they Who breathe in the white lilac only May; For there be other spirits unto whom Fate's kiss lies dreaming in each stray perfume!

Who mock at ghosts of odour--poor they be!

Bereft the scented balms of memory, For unto one in April's rain-blest earth There starts for aye the sharp, glad cry of birth; And Love will find in rooms unbarred for years Familiar sweetness loosing sudden tears, Clasping the will in mastering embrace As in the presence of a phantom grace.

Then there be odours pungent--fires in Fall The gipsying of boyhood to recall; And there be perfumes holy--nay, but one Whose pang is like none other 'neath the sun To drown the sinking senses in a joy Beyond all time to weaken or destroy!

Odours there be that swoon, entreat, caress-- Elusive thrall, to doom or stab or bless; Each vagrant scent that holds the breath in fee Doth wed the heart in Life's eternity.

Who fear no wraiths of fragrance--sorry they; Who breathe in lilac odours only May; For there be other mortals unto whom White magic wanders in each stray perfume.

MARTHA GILBERT d.i.c.kINSON BIANCHI

YEARS AFTERWARD

It is not sight or sound That, when a heart forgets, Most makes it to remember: It's some old poignant scent re-found-- Like breath of April violets, Or apples of September.

It isn't song or scene That stirs the tears again: It's brush smoke from the hills at night, Spicy and sweet; or that wet, keen, Long lost aroma of delight, Fresh ploughed fields after rain.

NANCY BYRD TURNER

AUTUMNAL