The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 32

"IN GREEN OLD GARDENS"

In green old gardens, hidden away From sight of revel and sound of strife, Where the bird may sing out his soul ere he die, Nor fears for the night, so he lives his day; Where the high red walls, which are growing gray With their lichen and moss embroideries, Seem sadly and sternly to shut out life, Because it is often as red as they;

Where even the bee has time to glide (Gathering gayly his honey's store) Right to the heart of the old-world flowers-- China-asters and purple stocks, Dahlias and tall red hollyhocks, Laburnums raining their golden showers, Columbines prim of the folded core, And lupins, and larkspurs, and "London pride";

Where the heron is waiting amongst the reeds, Grown tame in the silence that reigns around, Broken only, now and then, By shy woodp.e.c.k.e.r or noisy jay, By the far-off watch-dog's m.u.f.fled bay; But where never the purposeless laughter of men, Or the seething city's murmurous sound Will float up over the river-weeds.

Here may I live what life I please, Married and buried out of sight,-- Married to pleasure, and buried to pain,-- Hidden away amongst scenes like these, Under the fans of the chestnut trees; Living my child-life over again, With the further hope of a fallen delight, Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees.

In green old gardens, hidden away From sight of revel and sound of strife,-- Here have I leisure to breathe and move, And to do my work in a n.o.bler way; To sing my songs, and to say my say; To dream my dreams, and to love my love; To hold my faith, and to live my life, Making the most of its shadowy day.

Violet Fane [1843-1905]

A BENEDICTINE GARDEN

Through all the wind-blown aisles of May, Faint bells of perfume swing and fall.

Within this apple-petalled wall (A gray east, flecked with rosy day) The pink laburnum lays her cheek In married, matchless, lovely bliss, Against her golden mate, to seek His airy kiss.

Tulips, in faded splendor drest, Brood o'er their beds, a slumbrous gloom.

Dame Peony, red and ripe with bloom, Swells the silk housing of her breast.

The Lilac, drunk to ecstasy, Breaks her full flagons on the air, And drenches home the reeling bee Who found her fair.

O cowled Legion of the Cross, What solemn pleasantry is thine, Vowing to seek the life divine Through abnegation and through loss!

Men but make monuments of sin Who walk the earth's ambitious round; Thou hast the richer realm within This garden ground.

No woman's voice takes sweeter note Than chanting of this plumed choir.

No jewel ever wore the fire Hung on a dewdrop's quivering throat.

A ruddier pomp and pageantry Than world's delight o'erfleets thy sod; And choosing this, thou hast in fee The peace of G.o.d.

Alice Brown [1857-

AN AUTUMN GARDEN

My tent stands in a garden Of aster and golden-rod, Tilled by the rain and the sunshine, And sown by the hand of G.o.d,-- An old New England pasture Abandoned to peace and time, And by the magic of beauty Reclaimed to the sublime.

About it are golden woodlands Of tulip and hickory; On the open ridge behind it You may mount to a glimpse of sea,-- The far-off, blue, Homeric Rim of the world's great shield, A border of boundless glamor For the soul's familiar field.

In purple and gray-wrought lichen The boulders lie in the sun; Along its gra.s.sy footpath, The white-tailed rabbits run.

The crickets work and chirrup Through the still afternoon; And the owl calls at twilight Under the frosty moon.

The odorous wild grape clambers Over the tumbling wall, And through the autumnal quiet The chestnuts open and fall.

Sharing time's freshness and fragrance, Part of the earth's great soul, Here man's spirit may ripen To wisdom serene and whole.

Shall we not grow with the asters?-- Never reluctant nor sad, Not counting the cost of being, Living to dare and be glad.

Shall we not lift with the crickets A chorus of ready cheer, Braving the frost of oblivion, Quick to be happy here?

The deep red cones of the sumach And the woodbine's crimson sprays Have bannered the common roadside For the pageant of pa.s.sing days.

These are the oracles Nature Fills with her holy breath, Giving them glory of color, Transcending the shadow of death.

Here in the sifted sunlight A spirit seems to brood On the beauty and worth of being, In tranquil, instinctive mood; And the heart, athrob with gladness Such as the wise earth knows, Wells with a full thanksgiving For the gifts that life bestows:

For the ancient and virile nurture Of the teeming primordial ground, For the splendid gospel of color, The rapt revelations of sound; For the morning-blue above us And the rusted gold of the fern, For the chickadee's call to valor Bidding the faint-heart turn;

For fire and running water, Snowfall and summer rain; For sunsets and quiet meadows, The fruit and the standing grain; For the solemn hour of moonrise Over the crest of trees, When the mellow lights are kindled In the lamps of the centuries.

For those who wrought aforetime, Led by the mystic strain To strive for the larger freedom, And live for the greater gain; For plenty and peace and playtime, The homely goods of earth, And for rare immaterial treasures Accounted of little worth;

For art and learning and friendship, Where beneficent truth is supreme, Those everlasting cities Built on the hills of dream; For all things growing and goodly That foster this life, and breed The immortal flower of wisdom Out of the mortal seed.

But most of all for the spirit That can not rest nor bide In stale and sterile convenience, Nor safety proven and tried, But still inspired and driven, Must seek what better may be, And up from the loveliest garden Must climb for a glimpse of sea.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]

UNGUARDED

The Mistress of the Roses Is haply far away, And through her garden closes What strange intruders stray.

See on its rustic spindles The sundrop's amber fire!

And the goldenrod enkindles The embers on its spire.

The dodder's shining tangle From the meadow brook steals in, Where in this shadowed angle The pale lace-makers spin.

Here's Black-Eyed Susan weeping Into exotic air, And Bouncing Bet comes creeping Back to her old parterre.

Now in this pleasant weather-- So sweetly reconciled-- They dwell and dream together, The kin of court and wild.

Ada Foster-Murray [1857-1936]

THE DESERTED GARDEN

I mind me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun, With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted.

The beds and walks were vanished quite; And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, The greenest gra.s.ses Nature laid To sanctify her right.

I called the place my wilderness; For no one entered there but I; The sheep looked in, the gra.s.s to espy, And pa.s.sed it ne'ertheless.

The trees were interwoven wild, And spread their boughs enough about To keep both sheep and shepherd out, But not a happy child.