Part 32 (2/2)

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

A SELLER OF HERBS

Black, comely, of abiding cheer, Three times a week she fares, Townward from gabled Windermere, To sell her dainty wares.

Green balms she brings from winding lanes, And some in handfuls tall, Of the old days of Annes and Janes, Grown by a kitchen wall.

Keen mint has she in dewy sprigs, With spears of violet; And the spiced bloom of elder-twigs In a field's hollow set.

My s.n.a.t.c.h of May I get from her, In white buds off a tree; June in one whiff of lavender, That breaks my heart for me.

The swaying boughs of Windermere, Each gust that takes the gra.s.s, High over the town roar I hear, When that old stall I pa.s.s.

What homely memories are mine, At sight of her quaint stalks; Of grave dusks mellowing like wine Down long, box-bordered walks;

Of garret windows eastward thrust, Of rafters s.h.i.+ning dim, And heaped with herbs as gray as dust All scented to the brim.

This lady of the market-place, Three times a week and more, I pray her seasons thick with grace; And ever at her door,

Shut from the road by wall of stone, And ample cherry trees, A garden fair as Herrick's own, And just as full of bees!

LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE

LAVENDER

Gray walls that lichen stains, That take the sun and the rains, Old, stately, and wise: Clipt yews, old lawns flag-bordered, In ancient ways yet ordered; South walks where the loud bee plies Daylong till Summer flies-- Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.

Gay cottage gardens, glad, Comely, unkempt, and mad, Jumbled, jolly, and quaint; Nooks where some old man dozes; Currants and beans and roses Mingling without restraint; A wicket that long lacks paint-- Here grows Lavender, here breathes England.

Sprawling for elbow-room, Spearing straight spikes of bloom, Clean, wayward, and tough; Sweet and tall and slender, True, enduring, and tender, Buoyant and bold and bluff, Simplest, sanest of stuff-- Thus grows Lavender, thence breathes England.

W. W. BLAIR FISH

DAWN IN MY GARDEN

I went into my garden at break of Delight, Before Joy had risen in the Eastern sky, To see how many cuc.u.mbers had happened over night, And how much higher stood the corn that yesterday was high.

I went into my garden when Rest had fallen away From the tops of blue hills, from the valleys gold and green, To see how far the beans had travelled up into the day, And whether all my lettuces were glad and cool and clean.

I went into my garden when Mirth was laughing low Through the sharp-scented leaves of the lush tomato vines, Through the long blue-grey leaves of the turnips in a row, Where early in the every day the dew shakes and s.h.i.+nes.

Oh, Rest had slipped away from the valleys green and gold, From the tops of blue hills that were silent all the night, But the big, round Joy was rising, busy and bold, When I went into my garden at break of Delight!

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