Clement Wood
It is mid-afternoon. Long, long agoEach morning-glory sheathed the slender hornIt blew so gayly on the hills of morn,And fainted in the noontide's fervid glow.Gone are the dew-drops from the rose's heart—Gone with the freshness of the early hours,The songs that filled the air with silver showers,The lovely dreams that were of morn a part.Yet still in tender light the garden lies;The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low;Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro;The peace of heaven is in the o'erarching skies.And here be four-o'clocks, just opening wideTheir many colored petals to the sun,As glad to live as if the evening dunWere far away, and morning had not died!
It is mid-afternoon. Long, long agoEach morning-glory sheathed the slender hornIt blew so gayly on the hills of morn,And fainted in the noontide's fervid glow.
Gone are the dew-drops from the rose's heart—Gone with the freshness of the early hours,The songs that filled the air with silver showers,The lovely dreams that were of morn a part.
Yet still in tender light the garden lies;The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low;Brown bees and butterflies flit to and fro;The peace of heaven is in the o'erarching skies.
And here be four-o'clocks, just opening wideTheir many colored petals to the sun,As glad to live as if the evening dunWere far away, and morning had not died!
Julia C. R. Dorr
A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,With doors that none but the wind ever closes,Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;"I wonder," I say, "who the owner of those is.""Oh, no one you know," she answers me airy,"But one we must ask if we want any roses."So we must join hands in the dew coming coldlyThere in the hush of the wood that reposes,And turn and go up to the open door boldly,And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses."Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?"'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses."Pray are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses."A word with you, that of the singer recalling—Old Herrick: a saying that every man knows isA flower unplucked is but left to the falling,And nothing is gained by not gathering roses."We do not loosen our hands' intertwining(Not caring so very much what she supposes),There when she comes on us mistily shiningAnd grants us by silence the boon of her roses.
A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,With doors that none but the wind ever closes,Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.
I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;"I wonder," I say, "who the owner of those is.""Oh, no one you know," she answers me airy,"But one we must ask if we want any roses."
So we must join hands in the dew coming coldlyThere in the hush of the wood that reposes,And turn and go up to the open door boldly,And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.
"Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?"'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses."Pray are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.
"A word with you, that of the singer recalling—Old Herrick: a saying that every man knows isA flower unplucked is but left to the falling,And nothing is gained by not gathering roses."
We do not loosen our hands' intertwining(Not caring so very much what she supposes),There when she comes on us mistily shiningAnd grants us by silence the boon of her roses.
Robert Frost
In a black oak chest all carven,We found it laid,Still faintly sweet of Lavender,An old brocade.With that perfume came a vision,A garden fair,Enclosed by great yew hedges;A Lady there,Is culling fresh blown lavender,And singing goesUp and down the alleys green—A human rose.The sun glints on her auburn hairAnd brightens, too,The silver buckles that adornEach little shoe.Her 'kerchief and her elbow sleevesAre cobweb lace;Her gown, it is our old brocade,Worn with a grace.Methinks I hear its soft frou-frou,And see the sheenOf its dainty pink moss-rose buds,Their leaves soft green,On a ground of palest shell pink,In garlands laid;But long dead the Rose who wore it—The old brocade.
In a black oak chest all carven,We found it laid,Still faintly sweet of Lavender,An old brocade.With that perfume came a vision,A garden fair,Enclosed by great yew hedges;A Lady there,Is culling fresh blown lavender,And singing goesUp and down the alleys green—A human rose.The sun glints on her auburn hairAnd brightens, too,The silver buckles that adornEach little shoe.Her 'kerchief and her elbow sleevesAre cobweb lace;Her gown, it is our old brocade,Worn with a grace.Methinks I hear its soft frou-frou,And see the sheenOf its dainty pink moss-rose buds,Their leaves soft green,On a ground of palest shell pink,In garlands laid;But long dead the Rose who wore it—The old brocade.
M. G. Brereton
Gardens and Stairways; those are words that thrill meAlways with vague suggestions of delight.Stairways and Gardens. Mystery and graceSeem part of their environment; they fill all spaceWith memories of things veiled from my sightIn some far place.Gardens. The word is overcharged with meaning;It speaks of moonlight, and a closing door;Of birds at dawn—of sultry afternoons.Gardens. I seem to see low branches screeningA vine-roofed arbor with a leaf-tiled floorWhere sunlight swoons.Stairways. The word winds upward to a landing,Then curves and vanishes in space above.Lights fall, lights rise; soft lights that meet and blend.Stairways; and some one at the bottom standingExpectantly with lifted looks of love.Then steps descend.Gardens and Stairways. They belong with song—With subtle scents of perfume, myrrh and musk—With dawn and dusk—with youth, romance, and mystery,And times that were and times that are to be.Stairways and Gardens.
Gardens and Stairways; those are words that thrill meAlways with vague suggestions of delight.Stairways and Gardens. Mystery and graceSeem part of their environment; they fill all spaceWith memories of things veiled from my sightIn some far place.
Gardens. The word is overcharged with meaning;It speaks of moonlight, and a closing door;Of birds at dawn—of sultry afternoons.Gardens. I seem to see low branches screeningA vine-roofed arbor with a leaf-tiled floorWhere sunlight swoons.
Stairways. The word winds upward to a landing,Then curves and vanishes in space above.Lights fall, lights rise; soft lights that meet and blend.Stairways; and some one at the bottom standingExpectantly with lifted looks of love.Then steps descend.
Gardens and Stairways. They belong with song—With subtle scents of perfume, myrrh and musk—With dawn and dusk—with youth, romance, and mystery,And times that were and times that are to be.Stairways and Gardens.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
I love old mothers—mothers with white hair,And kindly eyes, and lips grown softly sweetWith murmured blessings over sleeping babes.There is a something in their quiet graceThat speaks the calm of Sabbath afternoons;A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyesThat far outreaches all philosophy.Time, with caressing touch, about them weavesThe silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age,While all the echoes of forgotten songsSeem joined to lend a sweetness to their speech.Old mothers!—as they pace with slow-timed step,Their trembling hands cling gently to youth's strength;Sweet mothers!—as they pass, one sees againOld garden-walks, old roses, and old loves.
I love old mothers—mothers with white hair,And kindly eyes, and lips grown softly sweetWith murmured blessings over sleeping babes.There is a something in their quiet graceThat speaks the calm of Sabbath afternoons;A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyesThat far outreaches all philosophy.Time, with caressing touch, about them weavesThe silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age,While all the echoes of forgotten songsSeem joined to lend a sweetness to their speech.Old mothers!—as they pace with slow-timed step,Their trembling hands cling gently to youth's strength;Sweet mothers!—as they pass, one sees againOld garden-walks, old roses, and old loves.
Charles Ross
I knowWhere the wind flowers blow!I know,I have beenWhere the wild honey beesGather honey for their queen!I would beA wild flower,Blue sky over me,For an hour ... an hour!So the wild beesShould seek and discover me,And kiss me ... kiss me ... kiss me!Not one of the dusky dears should miss me!I knowWhere the wind flowers blow!I know,I have beenWhere the little rabbits runIn the warm, yellow sun!Oh, to be a wild flowerFor an hour ... an hour ...In the heather!A bright flower, a wild flower,Blown by the weather!I know,I have beenWhere the wild honey beesGather Honey for their queen!
I knowWhere the wind flowers blow!I know,I have beenWhere the wild honey beesGather honey for their queen!
I would beA wild flower,Blue sky over me,For an hour ... an hour!So the wild beesShould seek and discover me,And kiss me ... kiss me ... kiss me!Not one of the dusky dears should miss me!
I knowWhere the wind flowers blow!I know,I have beenWhere the little rabbits runIn the warm, yellow sun!
Oh, to be a wild flowerFor an hour ... an hour ...In the heather!A bright flower, a wild flower,Blown by the weather!
I know,I have beenWhere the wild honey beesGather Honey for their queen!
Irene Rutherford McLeod
I know a road that leads from town,A pale road in a Watteau gownOf wild-rose sprays, that runs awayAll fragrant-sandaled, slim and gray.It slips along the laurel groveAnd down the hill, intent to rove,And crooks an arm of shadow coolAround a willow-silvered pool.I never travel very farBeyond the pool where willows are:There is a shy and native graceThat hovers all about the place,And resting there I hardly knowJust where it was I meant to go,Contented like the road that dozesIn panniered gown of briar roses.
I know a road that leads from town,A pale road in a Watteau gownOf wild-rose sprays, that runs awayAll fragrant-sandaled, slim and gray.
It slips along the laurel groveAnd down the hill, intent to rove,And crooks an arm of shadow coolAround a willow-silvered pool.
I never travel very farBeyond the pool where willows are:There is a shy and native graceThat hovers all about the place,
And resting there I hardly knowJust where it was I meant to go,Contented like the road that dozesIn panniered gown of briar roses.
Grace Hazard Conkling
Summer has crossed the fields, and where she trodViolets bloom; the dancing wind-flowers nod,And daisies blossom all across the sod.She passed the brook, and in their glad surpriseThe first forget-me-nots smiled at the skiesAnd caught the very color of her eyes.But, sleeping in the meadow-land, she pressedThe dear wild rose so closely to her breastIt stole her heart—and so she loves it best.
Summer has crossed the fields, and where she trodViolets bloom; the dancing wind-flowers nod,And daisies blossom all across the sod.
She passed the brook, and in their glad surpriseThe first forget-me-nots smiled at the skiesAnd caught the very color of her eyes.
But, sleeping in the meadow-land, she pressedThe dear wild rose so closely to her breastIt stole her heart—and so she loves it best.
Charles Buxton Going
Up a hill and a hill there's a sudden orchard-slope,And a little tawny field in the sun;There's a gray wall that coils like a twist of frayed-out rope,And grasses nodding news one to one.Up a hill and a hill there's a windy place to stand,And between the apple-boughs to find the blueOf the sleepy summer sea, past the cliffs of orange sand,With the white charmèd ships sliding through.Up a hill and a hill there's a little house as grayAs a stone that the glaciers scored and stained;With a red rose by the door, and a tangled garden-way,And a face at the window, checker-paned.I could climb, I could climb, till the shoes fell off my feet,Just to find that tawny field above the sea!Up a hill and a hill,—oh, the honeysuckle's sweet!And the eyes at the window watch for me!
Up a hill and a hill there's a sudden orchard-slope,And a little tawny field in the sun;There's a gray wall that coils like a twist of frayed-out rope,And grasses nodding news one to one.
Up a hill and a hill there's a windy place to stand,And between the apple-boughs to find the blueOf the sleepy summer sea, past the cliffs of orange sand,With the white charmèd ships sliding through.
Up a hill and a hill there's a little house as grayAs a stone that the glaciers scored and stained;With a red rose by the door, and a tangled garden-way,And a face at the window, checker-paned.
I could climb, I could climb, till the shoes fell off my feet,Just to find that tawny field above the sea!Up a hill and a hill,—oh, the honeysuckle's sweet!And the eyes at the window watch for me!
Fannie Stearns Davis
The smell of the morning that lurks in the hay,The swish of the scytheAnd the roundelayOf the meadow-lark as he wings away,Are the joys of a summer morning.The daisy's bloom on the meadow's breast,The wandering beeAnd his ceaseless questOf the tempting sweets in the clover's crest,Are the joys of a summer morning.The lowing kine on a distant hill,The rollicking fallOf the near-by rillAnd the lazy drone of the ancient mill,Are the joys of a summer morning.The feathery clouds in a faultless sky,The new-risen sunWith its kindly eyeAnd the woodland breezes floating by,Are the joys of a summer morning.
The smell of the morning that lurks in the hay,The swish of the scytheAnd the roundelayOf the meadow-lark as he wings away,Are the joys of a summer morning.
The daisy's bloom on the meadow's breast,The wandering beeAnd his ceaseless questOf the tempting sweets in the clover's crest,Are the joys of a summer morning.
The lowing kine on a distant hill,The rollicking fallOf the near-by rillAnd the lazy drone of the ancient mill,Are the joys of a summer morning.
The feathery clouds in a faultless sky,The new-risen sunWith its kindly eyeAnd the woodland breezes floating by,Are the joys of a summer morning.
Henry A. Wise Wood
Where have you been, South Wind, this May-day morning,With larks aloft, or skimming with the swallow,Or with blackbirds in a green, sun-glinted thicket?Oh, I heard you like a tyrant in the valley;Your ruffian hosts shook the young, blossoming orchards;You clapped rude hands, hallooing round the chimney,And white your pennons streamed along the river.You have robbed the bee, South Wind, in your adventure,Blustering with gentle flowers; but I forgave youWhen you stole to me shyly with scent of hawthorn.
Where have you been, South Wind, this May-day morning,With larks aloft, or skimming with the swallow,Or with blackbirds in a green, sun-glinted thicket?
Oh, I heard you like a tyrant in the valley;Your ruffian hosts shook the young, blossoming orchards;You clapped rude hands, hallooing round the chimney,And white your pennons streamed along the river.
You have robbed the bee, South Wind, in your adventure,Blustering with gentle flowers; but I forgave youWhen you stole to me shyly with scent of hawthorn.
Siegfried Sassoon
You bold thing! thrusting 'neath the very noseOf her fastidious majesty, the rose,Even in the best ordainèd garden bed,Unauthorized, your smiling little head!The gardener, mind! will come in his big boots,And drag you up by your rebellious roots,And cast you forth to shrivel in the sun,Your daring quelled, your little weed's life done.And when the noon cools, and the sun drops low,He'll come again with his big wheelbarrow,And trundle you—I don't know clearly where,But off, outside the dew, the light, the air.Meantime—ah, yes! the air is very blue,And gold the light, and diamond the dew,—You laugh and courtesy in your worthless way,And you are gay, ah, so exceeding gay!You argue in your manner of a weed,You did not make yourself grow from a seed,You fancy you've a claim to standing-room,You dream yourself a right to breathe and bloom.The sun loves you, you think, just as the rose,He never scorned you for a weed,—he knows!The green-gold flies rest on you and are glad,It's only cross old gardeners find you bad.You know, you weed, I quite agree with you,I am a weed myself, and I laugh too,—Both, just as long as we can shun his eye,Let's sniff at the old gardener trudging by!
You bold thing! thrusting 'neath the very noseOf her fastidious majesty, the rose,Even in the best ordainèd garden bed,Unauthorized, your smiling little head!
The gardener, mind! will come in his big boots,And drag you up by your rebellious roots,And cast you forth to shrivel in the sun,Your daring quelled, your little weed's life done.
And when the noon cools, and the sun drops low,He'll come again with his big wheelbarrow,And trundle you—I don't know clearly where,But off, outside the dew, the light, the air.
Meantime—ah, yes! the air is very blue,And gold the light, and diamond the dew,—You laugh and courtesy in your worthless way,And you are gay, ah, so exceeding gay!
You argue in your manner of a weed,You did not make yourself grow from a seed,You fancy you've a claim to standing-room,You dream yourself a right to breathe and bloom.
The sun loves you, you think, just as the rose,He never scorned you for a weed,—he knows!The green-gold flies rest on you and are glad,It's only cross old gardeners find you bad.
You know, you weed, I quite agree with you,I am a weed myself, and I laugh too,—Both, just as long as we can shun his eye,Let's sniff at the old gardener trudging by!
Gertrude Hall
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;I'll only stop to rake the leaves away(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.I'm going out to fetch the little calfThat's standing by the mother. It's so young,It totters when she licks it with her tongue.I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;I'll only stop to rake the leaves away(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.
I'm going out to fetch the little calfThat's standing by the mother. It's so young,It totters when she licks it with her tongue.I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.
Robert Frost
Ha, prickle-armèd knight,How oft the world hath cursed thee,Thou pestilence of Earth,The beldame who hath nursed thee!Hath hellish ProserpineHer needs lent to arm theeThat mischief-loving gods,Pricked sorely, may not harm thee?Or hath the mirthful LovePresented thee his pinionsTo dress thy tiny seeds,The curse of man's dominions!Thou like a maiden artWho best can find protectionEmployed at needleworkFrom idleness' infection.And like a prude thou artWhen he who loves embraces;Thou dost repel with thornsAnd she with sharper phrases.And like the wraith thou artWherewith my heart is haunted;Ye both take most delightWhere ye the least are wanted.
Ha, prickle-armèd knight,How oft the world hath cursed thee,Thou pestilence of Earth,The beldame who hath nursed thee!
Hath hellish ProserpineHer needs lent to arm theeThat mischief-loving gods,Pricked sorely, may not harm thee?
Or hath the mirthful LovePresented thee his pinionsTo dress thy tiny seeds,The curse of man's dominions!
Thou like a maiden artWho best can find protectionEmployed at needleworkFrom idleness' infection.
And like a prude thou artWhen he who loves embraces;Thou dost repel with thornsAnd she with sharper phrases.
And like the wraith thou artWherewith my heart is haunted;Ye both take most delightWhere ye the least are wanted.
Miles M. Dawson
Little masters, hat in hand,Let me in your presence stand,Till your silence solve for meThis your threefold mystery.Tell me—for I long to know—How, in darkness there below,Was your fairy fabric spun,Spread and fashioned, three in one.Did your gossips gold and blue,Sky and Sunshine, choose for you,Ere your triple forms were seen,Suited liveries of green?Can ye—if ye dwelt indeedCaptives of a prison seed—Like the Genie, once againGet you back into the grain?Little masters, may I standIn your presence, hat in hand,Waiting till you solve for meThis your threefold mystery?
Little masters, hat in hand,Let me in your presence stand,Till your silence solve for meThis your threefold mystery.
Tell me—for I long to know—How, in darkness there below,Was your fairy fabric spun,Spread and fashioned, three in one.
Did your gossips gold and blue,Sky and Sunshine, choose for you,Ere your triple forms were seen,Suited liveries of green?
Can ye—if ye dwelt indeedCaptives of a prison seed—Like the Genie, once againGet you back into the grain?
Little masters, may I standIn your presence, hat in hand,Waiting till you solve for meThis your threefold mystery?
John B. Tabb
On the ripened grass is a bloomy mistOf silver and rose and amethystWhere the long June wave has run.There are glints of copper and tarnished brass,And hyacinthine flames that passFrom the green fires of the sun.This web of a thousand gleams and glowsWas woven silently out of the snowsAnd the patient shine and rain.It was fashioned cunningly day by dayFrom the silken spear to the pollened sprayWith its folded sheaths of grain.Oh, garden of grasses deep and wild,So dear to the vagrant and the childAnd the singer of an hour.To the wayworn soul you give your balm,Your cup of peace, your stringèd psalm,Your grace of bud and flower.
On the ripened grass is a bloomy mistOf silver and rose and amethystWhere the long June wave has run.
There are glints of copper and tarnished brass,And hyacinthine flames that passFrom the green fires of the sun.
This web of a thousand gleams and glowsWas woven silently out of the snowsAnd the patient shine and rain.
It was fashioned cunningly day by dayFrom the silken spear to the pollened sprayWith its folded sheaths of grain.
Oh, garden of grasses deep and wild,So dear to the vagrant and the childAnd the singer of an hour.
To the wayworn soul you give your balm,Your cup of peace, your stringèd psalm,Your grace of bud and flower.
Ada Foster Murray
O dandelion, rich and haughty,King of village flowers!Each day is coronation time,You have no humble hours.I like to see you bring a troopTo beat the blue-grass spears,To scorn the lawn-mower that would beLike fate's triumphant shears.Your yellow heads are cut away,It seems your reign is o'er.By noon you raise a sea of starsMore golden than before.
O dandelion, rich and haughty,King of village flowers!Each day is coronation time,You have no humble hours.I like to see you bring a troopTo beat the blue-grass spears,To scorn the lawn-mower that would beLike fate's triumphant shears.Your yellow heads are cut away,It seems your reign is o'er.By noon you raise a sea of starsMore golden than before.
Vachel Lindsay
And the name brings back those kindly hillsAnd the drowsing life so new to me;And the welcome that those purple blossomsWith their tiny trumpets blew to me.Stout and tall, they raised their clustered heads,Leaping, as a lusty fellow would,Through the lowlands, down the twisting cow-paths;Running past the green and yellow wood.How they come again—those rambling roads;And the weeds' wild jewels glowing there.Richer than a Paradise of flowersWas that bit of pasture growing there.Weeds—the very names call up those faintHalf-forgotten smells and cries again ...Weeds—like some old charm, I say them over,And the rolling Berkshires rise again:Basil, Boneset, Toadflax, Tansy,Weeds of every form and fancy;Milk-weed, Mullein, Loose-strife, Jewel-weed,Mustard, Thimble-weed, Tear-thumb (a cruel weed).Clovers in all sorts—Nonesuch, Melilot;Staring Buttercups, a bold and yellow lot.Daisies rioting about the placeWith Black-eyed Susan and Queen Anne's Lace....Names—they blossom into colored hills;Hills whose rousing beauty flows to me ...And with all its soundless, purple trumpets,Lo, the Joe-Pyeweed still blows to me!
And the name brings back those kindly hillsAnd the drowsing life so new to me;And the welcome that those purple blossomsWith their tiny trumpets blew to me.
Stout and tall, they raised their clustered heads,Leaping, as a lusty fellow would,Through the lowlands, down the twisting cow-paths;Running past the green and yellow wood.
How they come again—those rambling roads;And the weeds' wild jewels glowing there.Richer than a Paradise of flowersWas that bit of pasture growing there.
Weeds—the very names call up those faintHalf-forgotten smells and cries again ...Weeds—like some old charm, I say them over,And the rolling Berkshires rise again:
Basil, Boneset, Toadflax, Tansy,Weeds of every form and fancy;Milk-weed, Mullein, Loose-strife, Jewel-weed,Mustard, Thimble-weed, Tear-thumb (a cruel weed).Clovers in all sorts—Nonesuch, Melilot;Staring Buttercups, a bold and yellow lot.Daisies rioting about the placeWith Black-eyed Susan and Queen Anne's Lace....
Names—they blossom into colored hills;Hills whose rousing beauty flows to me ...And with all its soundless, purple trumpets,Lo, the Joe-Pyeweed still blows to me!
Louis Untermeyer
Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hideLike all created things, secrets from me,And stand a barrier to eternity.And I, how can I praise thee well and wideFrom where I dwell—upon the hither side?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 unfurledLiterally 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 lookFrom God's side even of such a simple thing?
Slight as thou art, thou art enough to hideLike all created things, secrets from me,And stand a barrier to eternity.And I, how can I praise thee well and wide
From where I dwell—upon the hither side?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 unfurledLiterally 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 lookFrom God's side even of such a simple thing?
Alice Meynell
A soft day, thank God!A wind from the southWith a honeyed mouth;A scent of drenching leaves,Briar and beech and lime,White elder-flower and thymeAnd the soaking grass smells sweet,Crushed by my two bare feet,While the rain drips,Drips, drips, drips from the eaves.A soft day, thank God!The hills wear a shroudOf silver cloud;The web the spider weavesIs a glittering net;The woodland path is wet,And the soaking earth smells sweetUnder my two bare feet,And the rain drips,Drips, drips, drips from the eaves.
A soft day, thank God!A wind from the southWith a honeyed mouth;A scent of drenching leaves,Briar and beech and lime,White elder-flower and thymeAnd the soaking grass smells sweet,Crushed by my two bare feet,While the rain drips,Drips, drips, drips from the eaves.
A soft day, thank God!The hills wear a shroudOf silver cloud;The web the spider weavesIs a glittering net;The woodland path is wet,And the soaking earth smells sweetUnder my two bare feet,And the rain drips,Drips, drips, drips from the eaves.
W. M. Letts
Not Spring'sThou art, but hers,Most cool, most virginal,Winter's, with thy faint breath, thy snowsRose-tinged.
Not Spring'sThou art, but hers,Most cool, most virginal,Winter's, with thy faint breath, thy snowsRose-tinged.
Adelaide Crapsey
Thou lonely, dew-wet mountain road,Traversed by toiling feet each day,What rare enchantment maketh theeAppear so gay?Thy sentinels, on either handRise tamarack, birch, and balsam-fir,O'er the familiar shrubs that greetThe wayfarer;But here's a magic cometh new—A joy to gladden thee, indeed:This passionate out-flowering ofThe jewel-weed,That now, when days are growing drear,As Summer dreams that she is old,Hangs out a myriad pleasure-bellsOf mottled gold!Thine only, these, thou lonely road!Though hands that take, and naught restore,Rob thee of other treasured things,Thine these are, forA fairy, cradled in each bloom,To all who pass the charmèd spotWhispers 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 charmAnd blur the dream!"
Thou lonely, dew-wet mountain road,Traversed by toiling feet each day,What rare enchantment maketh theeAppear so gay?
Thy sentinels, on either handRise tamarack, birch, and balsam-fir,O'er the familiar shrubs that greetThe wayfarer;
But here's a magic cometh new—A joy to gladden thee, indeed:This passionate out-flowering ofThe jewel-weed,
That now, when days are growing drear,As Summer dreams that she is old,Hangs out a myriad pleasure-bellsOf 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 pass the charmèd spotWhispers 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 charmAnd blur the dream!"
Florence Earle Coates
"Something there is that doesn't like a wall." (Robert Frost)
"Not like a wall?"I sit above the meadow in the glowing fallTracing the grey redoubt from square to squareWhich bound the acres harvest-ripe and fair,—And wonder if it's true?Nay, ask the sumac and the teeming vine,That lean upon the boulders,The crimsoning ivy and the wild woodbineWhose eager fingers clutch the stony shoulders,The golden rod, the aster and the rue.Ask the red squirrel with the chubby cheekSkipping from stone to stoneBy a quick route, his hidden hoard to seek,Making the little viaduct his own.Look where the woodchuck lifts a cautious headBetween the rocks close by the cabbage bed;The honey-bees have built a secret hiveIn a forgotten chink;And there a grey cocoon is tucked awayShrouding a miracle in mauve and pinkTo wait its Easter day.The wall with pageantry is all alive!And I who gazeOn the dark border here,Drawn like a ribbon round the pasture-ways,Embroidered with the glory of the year,—Do I not like the wall?Lo, I remember how in days of oldMy grandsire toiled with weariness and painTo dig the cumbering boulders from the mould;Piled them in ordered rows again,Fitting them firm and fast,A monument to lastLong after his own harried day was past.He cleared the rocky soil for corn and grainBy which his children throveTo carry on the race.We live by his life-giving.I see each stone, rough like his granite face,—Uncompromising, stern, no slave to love,Dowered with little grace,Grim with the hard, unjoyful task of living,But strong to stand the wrath of storm and time,And bolts that heaven let fall.Built of a patriot's prime,—I love the wall!
"Not like a wall?"I sit above the meadow in the glowing fallTracing the grey redoubt from square to squareWhich bound the acres harvest-ripe and fair,—And wonder if it's true?Nay, ask the sumac and the teeming vine,That lean upon the boulders,The crimsoning ivy and the wild woodbineWhose eager fingers clutch the stony shoulders,The golden rod, the aster and the rue.Ask the red squirrel with the chubby cheekSkipping from stone to stoneBy a quick route, his hidden hoard to seek,Making the little viaduct his own.Look where the woodchuck lifts a cautious headBetween the rocks close by the cabbage bed;The honey-bees have built a secret hiveIn a forgotten chink;And there a grey cocoon is tucked awayShrouding a miracle in mauve and pinkTo wait its Easter day.The wall with pageantry is all alive!
And I who gazeOn the dark border here,Drawn like a ribbon round the pasture-ways,Embroidered with the glory of the year,—Do I not like the wall?Lo, I remember how in days of oldMy grandsire toiled with weariness and painTo dig the cumbering boulders from the mould;Piled them in ordered rows again,Fitting them firm and fast,A monument to lastLong after his own harried day was past.He cleared the rocky soil for corn and grainBy which his children throveTo carry on the race.We live by his life-giving.I see each stone, rough like his granite face,—Uncompromising, stern, no slave to love,Dowered with little grace,Grim with the hard, unjoyful task of living,But strong to stand the wrath of storm and time,And bolts that heaven let fall.Built of a patriot's prime,—I love the wall!
Abbie Farwell Brown
There is a look of wisdom in yon stones,Great boulders basking in the noonday heat,Their grimness lightened by a fringe of sweetFresh fern or moss or green-gray lichen tones.While through the glade an insect army dronesAnd birds from neighboring boughs their notes repeat,These patriarchs, drowsing as in bliss complete,Rest on the flowery sward their tranquil bones.A thousand or ten thousand years ago,Shattered by frost, or by the torrent's might,These boulders hurtled from some toppling heightAnd crashed through forests to the plain below.Now, reconciled to Nature's gentler mood,They lie on lowly earth and find it good.
There is a look of wisdom in yon stones,Great boulders basking in the noonday heat,Their grimness lightened by a fringe of sweetFresh fern or moss or green-gray lichen tones.While through the glade an insect army dronesAnd birds from neighboring boughs their notes repeat,These patriarchs, drowsing as in bliss complete,Rest on the flowery sward their tranquil bones.
A thousand or ten thousand years ago,Shattered by frost, or by the torrent's might,These boulders hurtled from some toppling heightAnd crashed through forests to the plain below.Now, reconciled to Nature's gentler mood,They lie on lowly earth and find it good.
Charles Wharton Stork
I will be the gladdest thingUnder the sun;I will touch a hundred flowersAnd not pick one;I will look at cliffs and cloudsWith quiet eyes;Watch the wind bow down the grass,And the grass rise;And when lights begin to showUp from the town,I will mark which must be mine,And then start down.
I will be the gladdest thingUnder the sun;I will touch a hundred flowersAnd not pick one;
I will look at cliffs and cloudsWith quiet eyes;Watch the wind bow down the grass,And the grass rise;
And when lights begin to showUp from the town,I will mark which must be mine,And then start down.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
O Rod of gold!O swaying sceptre of the year—Now frost and coldShow Winter near,And shivering leaves grow brown and sere.The bleak hillside,And marshy waste of yellow reeds,And meadows wideWhere frosted weedsShake on the damp wind light-winged seeds,Are decked with thee,—The lingering Summer's latest grace,And sovereignty.Each wind-swept spaceWaves thy red gold in Winter's face—He strives each star,In stormy pride to lay full low;But when thy barResists his blow,Will crown thee with a puff of snow!
O Rod of gold!O swaying sceptre of the year—Now frost and coldShow Winter near,And shivering leaves grow brown and sere.The bleak hillside,And marshy waste of yellow reeds,And meadows wideWhere frosted weedsShake on the damp wind light-winged seeds,Are decked with thee,—The lingering Summer's latest grace,And sovereignty.Each wind-swept spaceWaves thy red gold in Winter's face—He strives each star,In stormy pride to lay full low;But when thy barResists his blow,Will crown thee with a puff of snow!
Margaret Deland
There's a path that leads to nowhereIn a meadow that I know,Where an inland island risesAnd the stream is still and slow;There it wanders under willowsAnd beneath the silver greenOf the birches' silent shadowsWhere the early violets lean.Other pathways lead to Somewhere,But the one I love so wellHad no end and no beginning—Just the beauty of the dell,Just the windflowers and the lilies,Yellow striped as adder's tongueSeem to satisfy my pathwayAs it winds their sweets among.There I go to meet the Spring-time,When the meadow is aglow,Marigolds amid the marshes,—And the stream is still and slow.—There I find my fair oasis,And with care-free feet I treadFor the pathway leads to nowhere,And the blue is overhead!All the ways that lead to SomewhereEcho with the hurrying feetOf the Struggling and the Striving,But the way I find so sweetBids me dream and bids me linger,Joy and Beauty are its goal,—On the path that leads to nowhereI have sometimes found my soul!
There's a path that leads to nowhereIn a meadow that I know,Where an inland island risesAnd the stream is still and slow;There it wanders under willowsAnd beneath the silver greenOf the birches' silent shadowsWhere the early violets lean.
Other pathways lead to Somewhere,But the one I love so wellHad no end and no beginning—Just the beauty of the dell,Just the windflowers and the lilies,Yellow striped as adder's tongueSeem to satisfy my pathwayAs it winds their sweets among.
There I go to meet the Spring-time,When the meadow is aglow,Marigolds amid the marshes,—And the stream is still and slow.—There I find my fair oasis,And with care-free feet I treadFor the pathway leads to nowhere,And the blue is overhead!
All the ways that lead to SomewhereEcho with the hurrying feetOf the Struggling and the Striving,But the way I find so sweetBids me dream and bids me linger,Joy and Beauty are its goal,—On the path that leads to nowhereI have sometimes found my soul!
Corinne Roosevelt Robinson
So fair the world about me lies,So pure is heaven above,Ere so much beauty diesI would give a gift to my love;Now, ere the long day close,That has been so full of bliss,I will send to my love the rose,In its leaves I will shut a kiss;A rose in the night to perish,A kiss through life to cherish;Now, ere the night-wind blows,I will send unto her the rose.
So fair the world about me lies,So pure is heaven above,Ere so much beauty diesI would give a gift to my love;Now, ere the long day close,That has been so full of bliss,I will send to my love the rose,In its leaves I will shut a kiss;A rose in the night to perish,A kiss through life to cherish;Now, ere the night-wind blows,I will send unto her the rose.
George Edward Woodberry
Where love is lifeThe roses blow,Though winds be rudeAnd cold the snow,The roses climbSerenely slow,They nod in rhymeWe know—we knowWhere love is lifeThe roses blow.Where life is loveThe roses blow,Though care be quickAnd sorrows grow,Their roots are twinedWith rose-roots soThat rosebuds findA way to showWhere life is loveThe roses blow.
Where love is lifeThe roses blow,Though winds be rudeAnd cold the snow,The roses climbSerenely slow,They nod in rhymeWe know—we knowWhere love is lifeThe roses blow.
Where life is loveThe roses blow,Though care be quickAnd sorrows grow,Their roots are twinedWith rose-roots soThat rosebuds findA way to showWhere life is loveThe roses blow.