William Griffith
At sunset my brown nightingalesHidden and hushed all day,Ring vespers, while the color palesAnd fades to twilight gray:The little mellow bells they ring,The little flutes they play,Are soft as though for practisingThe things they want to say.It's when the dark has floated downTo hide and guard and fold,I know their throats that look so brown,Are really made of gold.No music I have ever heardCan call as sweet as they!I wonder if itisa birdThat sings within the hidden tree,Or some shy angel calling meTo follow far away?
At sunset my brown nightingalesHidden and hushed all day,Ring vespers, while the color palesAnd fades to twilight gray:The little mellow bells they ring,The little flutes they play,Are soft as though for practisingThe things they want to say.It's when the dark has floated downTo hide and guard and fold,I know their throats that look so brown,Are really made of gold.No music I have ever heardCan call as sweet as they!I wonder if itisa birdThat sings within the hidden tree,Or some shy angel calling meTo follow far away?
Grace Hazard Conkling
Down from the sky on a sudden he dropsInto the mullein and juniper tops,Flushed from his bath in the midsummer shineFlooding the meadowland, drunk with the wineSpilled from the urns of the blue, like a boldSky-buccaneer in his sable and gold.Lightly he sways on the pendulous stem,Vividly restless, a fluttering gem,Then with a flash of bewildering wingsDazzles away up and down, and he singsClear as a bell at each dip as he fliesBounding along on the wave of the skies.Sunlight and laughter, a wingèd desire,Motion and melody married to fire,Lighter than thistle-tuft borne on the wind,Frailer than violets, how shall we findWords that will match him, discover a nameMeet for this marvel, this lyrical flame?How shall we fashion a rhythm to wing with him,Find us a wonderful music to sing with himFine as his rapture is, free as the rollickingSong that the harlequin drops in his frolickingDance through the summer sky, singing so merrilyHigh in the burning blue, winging so airily?
Down from the sky on a sudden he dropsInto the mullein and juniper tops,Flushed from his bath in the midsummer shineFlooding the meadowland, drunk with the wineSpilled from the urns of the blue, like a boldSky-buccaneer in his sable and gold.
Lightly he sways on the pendulous stem,Vividly restless, a fluttering gem,Then with a flash of bewildering wingsDazzles away up and down, and he singsClear as a bell at each dip as he fliesBounding along on the wave of the skies.
Sunlight and laughter, a wingèd desire,Motion and melody married to fire,Lighter than thistle-tuft borne on the wind,Frailer than violets, how shall we findWords that will match him, discover a nameMeet for this marvel, this lyrical flame?
How shall we fashion a rhythm to wing with him,Find us a wonderful music to sing with himFine as his rapture is, free as the rollickingSong that the harlequin drops in his frolickingDance through the summer sky, singing so merrilyHigh in the burning blue, winging so airily?
Odell Shepard
O, we are Kinfolk, she and I,—The little mother-bird all brown,Who broods above her nest on high,And with her soft, bright eyes looks downTo read the secret of my heart,—We two from all the world apart!She dreams there in her swaying nest;I dream here 'neath my sheltering vine.The same love stirs her feathered breastThat makes my heart-throb seem divine.We both dream 'neath the same kind sky,—The small brown mother-bird, and I.
O, we are Kinfolk, she and I,—The little mother-bird all brown,Who broods above her nest on high,And with her soft, bright eyes looks downTo read the secret of my heart,—We two from all the world apart!
She dreams there in her swaying nest;I dream here 'neath my sheltering vine.The same love stirs her feathered breastThat makes my heart-throb seem divine.We both dream 'neath the same kind sky,—The small brown mother-bird, and I.
Kate Whiting Patch
An arrow, feathery, alive,He darts and sings,—Then with a sudden skimming diveOf striped wingsHe finds a pine and, debonair,Makes with his mateAll birds that ever rested thereArticulate.The whisper of a multitudeOf happy wingsIs round him, a returning brood,Each time he sings.Though heaven be not for them or himYet he is wise,And daily tiptoes on the rimOf paradise.
An arrow, feathery, alive,He darts and sings,—Then with a sudden skimming diveOf striped wingsHe finds a pine and, debonair,Makes with his mateAll birds that ever rested thereArticulate.
The whisper of a multitudeOf happy wingsIs round him, a returning brood,Each time he sings.Though heaven be not for them or himYet he is wise,And daily tiptoes on the rimOf paradise.
Witter Bynner
Where snow-drifts are deepest he frolics along,A flicker of crimson, a chirrup of song,My Cardinal-Bird of the frost-powdered wing,Composing new lyrics to whistle in Spring.A plump little prelate, the park is his church;The pulpit he loves is a cliff-sheltered birch;And there, in his rubicund livery dressed,Arranging his feathers and ruffling his crest,He preaches, with most unconventional glee,A sermon addressed to the squirrels and me,Commending the wisdom of those that displayThe brightest of colors when heavens are gray.
Where snow-drifts are deepest he frolics along,A flicker of crimson, a chirrup of song,My Cardinal-Bird of the frost-powdered wing,Composing new lyrics to whistle in Spring.
A plump little prelate, the park is his church;The pulpit he loves is a cliff-sheltered birch;And there, in his rubicund livery dressed,Arranging his feathers and ruffling his crest,
He preaches, with most unconventional glee,A sermon addressed to the squirrels and me,Commending the wisdom of those that displayThe brightest of colors when heavens are gray.
Arthur Guiterman
The first faint dawn was flushing up the skies,When, dreamland still bewildering mine eyes,I looked out to the oak that, winter-long,—A winter wild with war and woe and wrong,—Beyond my casement had been void of song.And lo! with golden buds the twigs were set,Live buds that warbled like a rivuletBeneath a veil of willows. Then I knewThose tiny voices, clear as drops of dew,Those flying daffodils that fleck the blue,Those sparkling visitants from myrtle isles—Wee pilgrims of the sun, that measured milesInnumerable over land and seaWith wings of shining inches. Flakes of glee,They filled that dark old oak with jubilee,Foretelling in delicious roundelaysTheir dainty courtships on the dipping sprays,How they should fashion nests, mate helping mate,Of milkweed flax and fern-down delicate,To keep sky-tinted eggs inviolate.Listening to those blithe notes, I slipped once moreFrom lyric dawn through dreamland's open door,And there was God, Eternal Life that singsEternal joy, brooding all mortal things,A nest of stars, beneath untroubled wings.
The first faint dawn was flushing up the skies,When, dreamland still bewildering mine eyes,I looked out to the oak that, winter-long,—A winter wild with war and woe and wrong,—Beyond my casement had been void of song.
And lo! with golden buds the twigs were set,Live buds that warbled like a rivuletBeneath a veil of willows. Then I knewThose tiny voices, clear as drops of dew,Those flying daffodils that fleck the blue,
Those sparkling visitants from myrtle isles—Wee pilgrims of the sun, that measured milesInnumerable over land and seaWith wings of shining inches. Flakes of glee,They filled that dark old oak with jubilee,
Foretelling in delicious roundelaysTheir dainty courtships on the dipping sprays,How they should fashion nests, mate helping mate,Of milkweed flax and fern-down delicate,To keep sky-tinted eggs inviolate.
Listening to those blithe notes, I slipped once moreFrom lyric dawn through dreamland's open door,And there was God, Eternal Life that singsEternal joy, brooding all mortal things,A nest of stars, beneath untroubled wings.
Katharine Lee Bates
Out of the purple drifts,From the shadow sea of night,On tides of musk a moth upliftsIts weary wings of white.Is it a dream or ghostOf a dream that comes to me,Here in the twilight on the coast,Blue cinctured by the sea?Fashioned of foam and froth—And the dream is ended soon,And, lo, whence came the moon-white mothComes now the moth-white moon!
Out of the purple drifts,From the shadow sea of night,On tides of musk a moth upliftsIts weary wings of white.
Is it a dream or ghostOf a dream that comes to me,Here in the twilight on the coast,Blue cinctured by the sea?
Fashioned of foam and froth—And the dream is ended soon,And, lo, whence came the moon-white mothComes now the moth-white moon!
Frank Dempster Sherman
The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad for church;A Thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat singing on his perch."Happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them,But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them."Vanity, oh, vanity!Young maids, beware of vanity!"Grumbled out the buff-coat Bee,Half parson-like, half soldierly.The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes,Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the Thrushes;And when, that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pass,They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass.All because the buff-coat BeeLectured them so solemnly:—"Vanity, oh, vanity!Young maids, beware of vanity!"
The Puritan Spring Beauties stood freshly clad for church;A Thrush, white-breasted, o'er them sat singing on his perch."Happy be! for fair are ye!" the gentle singer told them,But presently a buff-coat Bee came booming up to scold them."Vanity, oh, vanity!Young maids, beware of vanity!"Grumbled out the buff-coat Bee,Half parson-like, half soldierly.
The sweet-faced maidens trembled, with pretty, pinky blushes,Convinced that it was wicked to listen to the Thrushes;And when, that shady afternoon, I chanced that way to pass,They hung their little bonnets down and looked into the grass.All because the buff-coat BeeLectured them so solemnly:—"Vanity, oh, vanity!Young maids, beware of vanity!"
Helen Gray Cone
He didn't know much musicWhen first he come along;An' all the birds went wonderin'Why he didn't sing a song.They primped their feathers in the sun,An' sung their sweetest notes;An' music jest come on the runFrom all their purty throats!But still that bird was silentIn summer time an' fall;He jest set still and listened,An' he wouldn't sing at all!But one night when them songstersWas tired out an' still,An' the wind sighed down the valleyAn' went creepin' up the hill;When the stars was all a-trembleIn the dreamin' fields o' blue,An' the daisy in the darkness—Felt the fallin' o' the dew,—There come a sound o' melodyNo mortal ever heard,An' all the birds seemed singin'From the throat o' one sweet bird!Then the other birds went Mayin'In a land too fur to call;For there warn't no use in stayin'When one bird could sing for all!
He didn't know much musicWhen first he come along;An' all the birds went wonderin'Why he didn't sing a song.
They primped their feathers in the sun,An' sung their sweetest notes;An' music jest come on the runFrom all their purty throats!
But still that bird was silentIn summer time an' fall;He jest set still and listened,An' he wouldn't sing at all!
But one night when them songstersWas tired out an' still,An' the wind sighed down the valleyAn' went creepin' up the hill;
When the stars was all a-trembleIn the dreamin' fields o' blue,An' the daisy in the darkness—Felt the fallin' o' the dew,—
There come a sound o' melodyNo mortal ever heard,An' all the birds seemed singin'From the throat o' one sweet bird!
Then the other birds went Mayin'In a land too fur to call;For there warn't no use in stayin'When one bird could sing for all!
Frank L. Stanton
Bee! tell me whence do you come?Ten fields away, twenty perhaps,Have heard your hum.If you are from the north, you mayHave passed my mother's roof of strawUpon your way.If you came from the south you shouldHave seen another cottage justInside the wood.And should you go back that way, pleaseCarry a message to the houseAmong the trees.Say—I will wait her at the rockBeside the stream, this very nightAt eight o'clock.And ask your queen when you get homeTo send my queen the present ofA honey-comb.
Bee! tell me whence do you come?Ten fields away, twenty perhaps,Have heard your hum.
If you are from the north, you mayHave passed my mother's roof of strawUpon your way.
If you came from the south you shouldHave seen another cottage justInside the wood.
And should you go back that way, pleaseCarry a message to the houseAmong the trees.
Say—I will wait her at the rockBeside the stream, this very nightAt eight o'clock.
And ask your queen when you get homeTo send my queen the present ofA honey-comb.
James Stephens
Fireflies, Fireflies, little glinting creatures,Making night lovely with a rain of gold,Born of the moonbeams, children all unearthly,Ah how you vanish from a look too bold!Fireflies, Fireflies, lovely as our dreams are,Sewn with such fancies from the years gone by,Wayward, elusive, as the playful zephyrs,Hiding mid grasses, gleaming in the sky.Fireflies, Fireflies, like unto the silentBrown nuns who gather for the dead to pray,As theirs your mission; holy, too, your tapers,Souls of dead flowers lighting on their way.
Fireflies, Fireflies, little glinting creatures,Making night lovely with a rain of gold,Born of the moonbeams, children all unearthly,Ah how you vanish from a look too bold!
Fireflies, Fireflies, lovely as our dreams are,Sewn with such fancies from the years gone by,Wayward, elusive, as the playful zephyrs,Hiding mid grasses, gleaming in the sky.
Fireflies, Fireflies, like unto the silentBrown nuns who gather for the dead to pray,As theirs your mission; holy, too, your tapers,Souls of dead flowers lighting on their way.
Antoinette De Coursey Patterson
Fireflies flicker in the tops of trees,Flicker in the lower branches,Skim along the ground.Over the moon-white liliesIs a flashing and ceasing of small, lemon-green stars.As you lean against me,Moon-white,The air all about youIs slit, and pricked, and pointed with sparkles of lemon-green flameStarting out of a background of great vague trees.
Fireflies flicker in the tops of trees,Flicker in the lower branches,Skim along the ground.Over the moon-white liliesIs a flashing and ceasing of small, lemon-green stars.As you lean against me,Moon-white,The air all about youIs slit, and pricked, and pointed with sparkles of lemon-green flameStarting out of a background of great vague trees.
Amy Lowell
She passed through the shadowy garden, so tall and so white,Her eyes on the stars and her face like an angel's upturned,And it seemed to my thought that the dusk round her head with the lightOf an aureole burned.But where she had trodden unseeing, I found on the pathA cricket, so frail that her light foot had maimed it, yet strongTo valiantly pipe, tiny hero, a faint aftermathOf its yesterday song.And I whispered, "Alas, Little Brother, why must it befallThat the passing of angels but cripples and leaves us to die?Poor imp of the greensward, God trumpets me clear in thy call;Thou art braver than I."The Bright Ones of Heaven have trodden me down as they passed;I crawl in their footsteps a trampled and impotent thing.I know not the reason, nor question henceforth. To the last,While I live, I will sing."
She passed through the shadowy garden, so tall and so white,Her eyes on the stars and her face like an angel's upturned,And it seemed to my thought that the dusk round her head with the lightOf an aureole burned.
But where she had trodden unseeing, I found on the pathA cricket, so frail that her light foot had maimed it, yet strongTo valiantly pipe, tiny hero, a faint aftermathOf its yesterday song.
And I whispered, "Alas, Little Brother, why must it befallThat the passing of angels but cripples and leaves us to die?Poor imp of the greensward, God trumpets me clear in thy call;Thou art braver than I.
"The Bright Ones of Heaven have trodden me down as they passed;I crawl in their footsteps a trampled and impotent thing.I know not the reason, nor question henceforth. To the last,While I live, I will sing."
Amelia Josephine Burr
Now with a re-created mindBack to the world my way I find;Fed by the hills one little hour,By meadow-slope and beechen-bower,Cedar serene, benignant larch,Hoar mountains and the azure archWhere dazzling vapors make vast sportIn God's profound and spacious court.The universe played with me. EarthHarped to high heaven her sweetest mirth;The clouds built castles for my pleasure,And airy legions without measureFlung, spindrift-wise, across the skyTo thrill my heart once and to die.I have held converse with large things;For cherubim with cooling wingsBrushed me, and gay stars, hid from view,Called through the arras of the blueAnd clapped their hands: "These veils uproll!And see the comrades of your soul!"The very flowers that ringed my bedTheir little "God-be-with-you" said,And every insect, bird and beeBrought cool cups from eternity.
Now with a re-created mindBack to the world my way I find;
Fed by the hills one little hour,By meadow-slope and beechen-bower,
Cedar serene, benignant larch,Hoar mountains and the azure arch
Where dazzling vapors make vast sportIn God's profound and spacious court.
The universe played with me. EarthHarped to high heaven her sweetest mirth;
The clouds built castles for my pleasure,And airy legions without measure
Flung, spindrift-wise, across the skyTo thrill my heart once and to die.
I have held converse with large things;For cherubim with cooling wings
Brushed me, and gay stars, hid from view,Called through the arras of the blue
And clapped their hands: "These veils uproll!And see the comrades of your soul!"
The very flowers that ringed my bedTheir little "God-be-with-you" said,
And every insect, bird and beeBrought cool cups from eternity.
Hermann Hagedorn
It is half-past eight on the blossomy bush:The petals are spread for a sunning;The little gold fly is scrubbing his face;The spider is nervously runningTo fasten a thread; the night-going mothIs folding his velvet perfection;And presently over the clover will comeThe bee on a tour of inspection.
It is half-past eight on the blossomy bush:The petals are spread for a sunning;The little gold fly is scrubbing his face;The spider is nervously runningTo fasten a thread; the night-going mothIs folding his velvet perfection;And presently over the clover will comeThe bee on a tour of inspection.
Paul Scott Mowrer
My night-moth, my white moth, out of the fragrant darkBlowing in and growing like a dim star-spark,So swift in the shifting of your elfin wings,So slight in your lighting, as a flower that clings,As a boat to ride the dew, with sheer up-bearing sails,Pulsing and breathing, rocked with delicate gales,—You gleam as a dream, by my window's light,My white moth, my bright moth, my wandering wraith of night.From the velvet screening of a great gray cloudThe moon floats swiftly, white and open-browed,Flooding cloud and water with her shining trail,Till the night shrinks, sighing, behind the radiant veil;The night, with her shy soul, to the deep wood slips—Her shy soul, her high soul, shrine of all the stars;And you fly, like the sigh from her tender lips,Athwart the wavering shadows, beating the silver bars;You fleet in the meeting of the dark and bright,My light moth, my white moth, spark from the soul of night.
My night-moth, my white moth, out of the fragrant darkBlowing in and growing like a dim star-spark,So swift in the shifting of your elfin wings,So slight in your lighting, as a flower that clings,As a boat to ride the dew, with sheer up-bearing sails,Pulsing and breathing, rocked with delicate gales,—You gleam as a dream, by my window's light,My white moth, my bright moth, my wandering wraith of night.
From the velvet screening of a great gray cloudThe moon floats swiftly, white and open-browed,Flooding cloud and water with her shining trail,Till the night shrinks, sighing, behind the radiant veil;The night, with her shy soul, to the deep wood slips—Her shy soul, her high soul, shrine of all the stars;And you fly, like the sigh from her tender lips,Athwart the wavering shadows, beating the silver bars;You fleet in the meeting of the dark and bright,My light moth, my white moth, spark from the soul of night.
Marion Couthouy Smith
O winged brother on the harebell, stay—Was God's hand very pitiful, the handThat wrought thy beauty at a dream's demand?Yes, knowing I love so well the flowery way,He did not fling me to the world astray—He did not drop me to the weary sand,But bore me gently to a leafy land:Tinting my wings, He gave me to the day.Oh, chide no more my doubting, my despair!I will go back now to the world of men.Farewell, I leave thee to the world of air,Yet thou hast girded up my heart again;For He that framed the impenetrable plan,And keeps His word with thee, will keep with man.
O winged brother on the harebell, stay—Was God's hand very pitiful, the handThat wrought thy beauty at a dream's demand?Yes, knowing I love so well the flowery way,He did not fling me to the world astray—He did not drop me to the weary sand,But bore me gently to a leafy land:Tinting my wings, He gave me to the day.
Oh, chide no more my doubting, my despair!I will go back now to the world of men.Farewell, I leave thee to the world of air,Yet thou hast girded up my heart again;For He that framed the impenetrable plan,And keeps His word with thee, will keep with man.
Edwin Markham
O, little bird, you singAs if all months were June;Pray tell me ere you goThe secret of your tune?"I have no hidden wordTo tell, nor mystic art;I only know I singThe song within my heart!"
O, little bird, you singAs if all months were June;Pray tell me ere you goThe secret of your tune?
"I have no hidden wordTo tell, nor mystic art;I only know I singThe song within my heart!"
Arthur Wallace Peach
Old gardens have a language of their own,And mine sweet speech to linger in the heart.A goodly place it is and primly spaced,With straight box-bordered paths and squares of bloom.Bay-trees by rows of antique urns tell talesOf one who loved the gardens Dante loved.Magnolias edge the placid lily-poolAnd flank the sagging seat, whence vista leadsTo blaze of rhododendrons banked in green.Azaleas by the scarlet quince flame upAgainst the lustrous grape-vines trellised highTo pigeon-cote and old brick wall where hideFirst snowdrops and the bravest violets.A place of solitudes whose silencesEnfold the heart as an unquiet bird.
Old gardens have a language of their own,And mine sweet speech to linger in the heart.A goodly place it is and primly spaced,With straight box-bordered paths and squares of bloom.Bay-trees by rows of antique urns tell talesOf one who loved the gardens Dante loved.Magnolias edge the placid lily-poolAnd flank the sagging seat, whence vista leadsTo blaze of rhododendrons banked in green.Azaleas by the scarlet quince flame upAgainst the lustrous grape-vines trellised highTo pigeon-cote and old brick wall where hideFirst snowdrops and the bravest violets.A place of solitudes whose silencesEnfold the heart as an unquiet bird.
Gertrude Huntington McGiffert
Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens;Their old rock fences, that our day inherits;Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens;Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits;Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.I see them gray among their ancient acres,Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,—Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers,Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,—Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies—Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers—Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies,And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers,And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.I love their orchards where the gay woodpeckerFlits, flashing o'er you, like a wingèd jewel;Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checkerWith half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal,The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker.Old homes! Old hearts! Upon my soul foreverTheir peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter;Like love they touch me, through the years that sever,With simple faith; like friendship, draw me afterThe dreamy patience that is theirs forever.
Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens;Their old rock fences, that our day inherits;Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens;Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits;Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.
I see them gray among their ancient acres,Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,—Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers,Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,—Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.
Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies—Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers—Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies,And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers,And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.
I love their orchards where the gay woodpeckerFlits, flashing o'er you, like a wingèd jewel;Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checkerWith half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal,The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker.
Old homes! Old hearts! Upon my soul foreverTheir peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter;Like love they touch me, through the years that sever,With simple faith; like friendship, draw me afterThe dreamy patience that is theirs forever.
Madison Cawein
This fairy pleasance in the brake—This maze run wild of flower and vine—Our fathers planted for the sakeOf eyes that longed for English gardensAmid the virgin wastes of pine.Here, by the broken, moldering wall,Where still the tiger-lilies ride,Once grew the crown imperial,The tall blue larkspur, white Queen Margaret,Prince's-feather, and mourning bride.Beyond their pale, a humbler throng,Grew Bouncing Bet and columbine;The mountain fringe ran all alongThe thick-set hedge of cinnamon roses,And overhung the eglantine.And Sunday flowers were here as well—Adam-and-Eve within their hood,The stately Canterbury bell,And, oft in churches breathing fragrance,The sweet and pungent southernwood.When ships for England cleared the bay,If long beside these reefs of foamShe stood, and watched them sail away,It was her garden first enticed herTo turn, and call this country "home."
This fairy pleasance in the brake—This maze run wild of flower and vine—Our fathers planted for the sakeOf eyes that longed for English gardensAmid the virgin wastes of pine.
Here, by the broken, moldering wall,Where still the tiger-lilies ride,Once grew the crown imperial,The tall blue larkspur, white Queen Margaret,Prince's-feather, and mourning bride.
Beyond their pale, a humbler throng,Grew Bouncing Bet and columbine;The mountain fringe ran all alongThe thick-set hedge of cinnamon roses,And overhung the eglantine.
And Sunday flowers were here as well—Adam-and-Eve within their hood,The stately Canterbury bell,And, oft in churches breathing fragrance,The sweet and pungent southernwood.
When ships for England cleared the bay,If long beside these reefs of foamShe stood, and watched them sail away,It was her garden first enticed herTo turn, and call this country "home."
Sarah N. Cleghorn
Among the meadows of the countryside,From city noise and tumult far away,Where clover-blossoms spread their fragrance wideAnd birds are warbling all the sunny day,There is a spot which lovingly I prize,For there a fair and sweet old-fashioned country garden lies.The gray old mansion down beside the laneStands knee-deep in the fields that lie aroundAnd scent the air with hay and ripening grain.Behind the manse box-hedges mark the boundAnd close the garden in, or nearly close,For on beyond the hollyhocks an olden orchard grows.So bright and lovely is the dear old place,It seems as though the country's very heartWere centered here, and that its antique graceMust ever hold it from the world apart.Immured it lies among the meadows deep,Its flowery stillness beautiful and calm as softest sleep.The morning-glories ripple o'er the hedgeAnd fleck its greenness with their tinted foam;Sweet wilding things, up to the garden's edgeThey love to wander from their meadow home,To take what little pleasure here they mayEre all their silken trumpets close before the warm midday.The larkspur lifts on high its azure spires,And up the arbor's lattices are rolledThe quaint nasturtium's many-colored fires;The tall carnation's breast of faded goldIs striped with many a faintly-flushing streak,Pale as the tender tints that blush upon a baby's cheek.The old sweet-rocket sheds its fine perfumes,With golden stars the coreopsis flames,And here are scores of sweet old-fashioned blooms,Dear for the very fragrance of their names,—Poppies and gilly flowers and four-o'clocks,Cowslips and candytuft and heliotrope and hollyhocks,Harebells and peonies and dragon-head,Petunias, scarlet sage and bergamot,Verbenas, ragged-robins, soft gold-thread,The bright primrose and pale forget-me-not,Wall-flowers and crocuses and columbines,Narcissus, asters, hyacinths, and honeysuckle vines.A sweet seclusion this of sun and shade,A calm asylum from the busy world,Where greed and restless care do ne'er invade,Nor news of 'change and mart each morning hurledRound half the globe; no noise of party feudDisturbs this peaceful spot nor mars its perfect quietude.But summer after summer comes and goesAnd leaves the garden ever fresh and fair;May brings the tulip, golden June the rose,And August winds shake down the mellow pear.Man blooms and blossoms, fades and disappears,—But scarce a tribute pays the garden to the passing years.Sweet is the odor of the warm, soft rainIn violet-days when spring opes her green heart;And sweet the apple trees along the laneWhose lovely blossoms all too soon depart;And sweet the brimming dew that overfillsThe golden chalices of all the trembling daffodils.But sweeter far, in this old garden-closeTo loiter 'mid the lovely old-time flowers,To breathe the scent of lavender and rose,And with old poets pass the peaceful hours.Old gardens and old poets,—happy heWhose quiet summer days are spent in such sweet company!
Among the meadows of the countryside,From city noise and tumult far away,Where clover-blossoms spread their fragrance wideAnd birds are warbling all the sunny day,There is a spot which lovingly I prize,For there a fair and sweet old-fashioned country garden lies.
The gray old mansion down beside the laneStands knee-deep in the fields that lie aroundAnd scent the air with hay and ripening grain.Behind the manse box-hedges mark the boundAnd close the garden in, or nearly close,For on beyond the hollyhocks an olden orchard grows.
So bright and lovely is the dear old place,It seems as though the country's very heartWere centered here, and that its antique graceMust ever hold it from the world apart.Immured it lies among the meadows deep,Its flowery stillness beautiful and calm as softest sleep.
The morning-glories ripple o'er the hedgeAnd fleck its greenness with their tinted foam;Sweet wilding things, up to the garden's edgeThey love to wander from their meadow home,To take what little pleasure here they mayEre all their silken trumpets close before the warm midday.
The larkspur lifts on high its azure spires,And up the arbor's lattices are rolledThe quaint nasturtium's many-colored fires;The tall carnation's breast of faded goldIs striped with many a faintly-flushing streak,Pale as the tender tints that blush upon a baby's cheek.
The old sweet-rocket sheds its fine perfumes,With golden stars the coreopsis flames,And here are scores of sweet old-fashioned blooms,Dear for the very fragrance of their names,—Poppies and gilly flowers and four-o'clocks,Cowslips and candytuft and heliotrope and hollyhocks,
Harebells and peonies and dragon-head,Petunias, scarlet sage and bergamot,Verbenas, ragged-robins, soft gold-thread,The bright primrose and pale forget-me-not,Wall-flowers and crocuses and columbines,Narcissus, asters, hyacinths, and honeysuckle vines.
A sweet seclusion this of sun and shade,A calm asylum from the busy world,Where greed and restless care do ne'er invade,Nor news of 'change and mart each morning hurledRound half the globe; no noise of party feudDisturbs this peaceful spot nor mars its perfect quietude.
But summer after summer comes and goesAnd leaves the garden ever fresh and fair;May brings the tulip, golden June the rose,And August winds shake down the mellow pear.Man blooms and blossoms, fades and disappears,—But scarce a tribute pays the garden to the passing years.
Sweet is the odor of the warm, soft rainIn violet-days when spring opes her green heart;And sweet the apple trees along the laneWhose lovely blossoms all too soon depart;And sweet the brimming dew that overfillsThe golden chalices of all the trembling daffodils.
But sweeter far, in this old garden-closeTo loiter 'mid the lovely old-time flowers,To breathe the scent of lavender and rose,And with old poets pass the peaceful hours.Old gardens and old poets,—happy heWhose quiet summer days are spent in such sweet company!
John Russell Hayes
Down this pathway, through the shade,Lightly tripped the dainty maid,In her eyes the smile of June,On her lips some old sweet tune.Through yon ragged rows of box,By that awkward clump of phlox,To her favorite pansy bedLike a ray of light, she sped.Satin slippers trim and neatGleamed upon her slender feet;Round her ankles, deftly tied,Ribbons crossed from side to side,Here her pinks, old fashioned, fair,Breathed their fragrance on the air;There her fluttering azure gownShook the poppy's petals down.Here a rose, with fond caress,Stooped to touch a truant tressFrom her fillet struggling free,Scorning its captivity.There a bed of rue was setWith an edge of mignonette,And the spicy bergamotMeshed the frail forget-me-not.Honeysuckles, hollyhocks,Bachelor's buttons, four-o'clocks,Marigolds and blue-eyed grassCurtsied when the maid did pass.Now the braggart weeds have spreadThrough the paths she loved to tread,And the creeping moss has grownO'er yon shattered dial-stone.Still beside the ruined walksSome old flowers, on sturdy stalks,Dream of her whose happy eyesRoam the fields of paradise.
Down this pathway, through the shade,Lightly tripped the dainty maid,In her eyes the smile of June,On her lips some old sweet tune.Through yon ragged rows of box,By that awkward clump of phlox,To her favorite pansy bedLike a ray of light, she sped.Satin slippers trim and neatGleamed upon her slender feet;Round her ankles, deftly tied,Ribbons crossed from side to side,Here her pinks, old fashioned, fair,Breathed their fragrance on the air;There her fluttering azure gownShook the poppy's petals down.Here a rose, with fond caress,Stooped to touch a truant tressFrom her fillet struggling free,Scorning its captivity.There a bed of rue was setWith an edge of mignonette,And the spicy bergamotMeshed the frail forget-me-not.Honeysuckles, hollyhocks,Bachelor's buttons, four-o'clocks,Marigolds and blue-eyed grassCurtsied when the maid did pass.Now the braggart weeds have spreadThrough the paths she loved to tread,And the creeping moss has grownO'er yon shattered dial-stone.Still beside the ruined walksSome old flowers, on sturdy stalks,Dream of her whose happy eyesRoam the fields of paradise.
James B. Kenyon
There were many flowers in my mother's garden,Sword-leaved gladiolas, taller far than I,Sticky-leaved petunias, pink and purple flaring,Velvet-painted pansies smiling at the sky;Scentless portulacas crowded down the borders,White and scarlet-petalled, rose and satin-gold,Clustered sweet alyssum, lacy-white and scented,Sprays of gray-green lavender to keep 'til you were old.In my mother's garden were green-leaved hiding-places,Nooks between the lilacs—oh, a pleasant place to play!Still my heart can hide there, still my eyes can dream it,Though the long years lie between and I am far away;When the world is hard now, when the city's clangingTires my eyes and tires my heart and dust lies everywhere,I can dream the peace still of the soft wind's blowing,I can be a child still and hide my heart from care.Lord, if still that garden blossoms in the sunlight,Grant that children laugh there now among its green and gold—Grant that little hearts still hide its memoried sweetness,Locking one bright dream away for light when they are old!
There were many flowers in my mother's garden,Sword-leaved gladiolas, taller far than I,Sticky-leaved petunias, pink and purple flaring,Velvet-painted pansies smiling at the sky;
Scentless portulacas crowded down the borders,White and scarlet-petalled, rose and satin-gold,Clustered sweet alyssum, lacy-white and scented,Sprays of gray-green lavender to keep 'til you were old.
In my mother's garden were green-leaved hiding-places,Nooks between the lilacs—oh, a pleasant place to play!Still my heart can hide there, still my eyes can dream it,Though the long years lie between and I am far away;
When the world is hard now, when the city's clangingTires my eyes and tires my heart and dust lies everywhere,I can dream the peace still of the soft wind's blowing,I can be a child still and hide my heart from care.
Lord, if still that garden blossoms in the sunlight,Grant that children laugh there now among its green and gold—Grant that little hearts still hide its memoried sweetness,Locking one bright dream away for light when they are old!
Margaret Widdemer
I search the poet's honied lines,And not in vain, for columbines;And not in vain for other flowersThat sanctify the many bowersUnsanctified by human souls.See where the larkspur lifts amongThe thousand blossoms finely sung,Still blossoming in the fragrant scrolls!Charity, eglantine, and rueAnd love-in-a-mist are all in view,With coloured cousins; but where are you,Sweetwilliam?The lily and the rose have booksDevoted to their lovely looks,And wit has fallen in vital showersThrough England's most miraculous hoursTo keep them fresh a thousand years.The immortal library can showThe violet's well-thumbed folioStained tenderly by girls in tears.The shelf where Genius stands in viewHas brier and daffodil and rueAnd love-lies-bleeding; but not you,Sweetwilliam.Thus, if I seek the classic lineFor marybuds, 'tis, Shakespeare, thine!And ever is the primrose born'Neath Goldsmith's overhanging thorn.In Herrick's breastknot I can seeThe apple-blossom, fresh and fairAs when he plucked and put it there,Heedless of Time's anthology.So flower by flower comes into viewKept fadeless by the Olympian dewFor startled eyes; and yet not you,Sweetwilliam.Though gods of song have let you be,Bloom in my little book for me.Unwont to stoop or lean, you showAn undefeated heart, and growAs pluckily as cedars. HeatAnd cold, and winds that makeTumbledown sallies, cannot shakeYour resolution to be sweet.Then take this song, be it born to dieEre yet the unwedded butterflyHas glimpsed a darling in the sky,Sweetwilliam!
I search the poet's honied lines,And not in vain, for columbines;And not in vain for other flowersThat sanctify the many bowersUnsanctified by human souls.See where the larkspur lifts amongThe thousand blossoms finely sung,Still blossoming in the fragrant scrolls!Charity, eglantine, and rueAnd love-in-a-mist are all in view,With coloured cousins; but where are you,Sweetwilliam?
The lily and the rose have booksDevoted to their lovely looks,And wit has fallen in vital showersThrough England's most miraculous hoursTo keep them fresh a thousand years.The immortal library can showThe violet's well-thumbed folioStained tenderly by girls in tears.The shelf where Genius stands in viewHas brier and daffodil and rueAnd love-lies-bleeding; but not you,Sweetwilliam.
Thus, if I seek the classic lineFor marybuds, 'tis, Shakespeare, thine!And ever is the primrose born'Neath Goldsmith's overhanging thorn.In Herrick's breastknot I can seeThe apple-blossom, fresh and fairAs when he plucked and put it there,Heedless of Time's anthology.So flower by flower comes into viewKept fadeless by the Olympian dewFor startled eyes; and yet not you,Sweetwilliam.
Though gods of song have let you be,Bloom in my little book for me.Unwont to stoop or lean, you showAn undefeated heart, and growAs pluckily as cedars. HeatAnd cold, and winds that makeTumbledown sallies, cannot shakeYour resolution to be sweet.Then take this song, be it born to dieEre yet the unwedded butterflyHas glimpsed a darling in the sky,Sweetwilliam!
Norman Gale
A pungent spray of rose-geranium—A breath of the old life.It brings up the little five-room cottage where I was born,And where I grew through a smiling childhood.The white-bearded grandfather sits in his mended rocking-chair,His eyes far off, crooning "The Sweet By and By,"Marked with the tapping of his toe upon the weathered porch-floor,While the sunshine drizzles through the great oaks.And there is my grandmother's kneeling figure,Turning over the rich black earth with her trowel;And the kind wrinkles on her face, as she says:"Didn't the pansies do finely this year, Clem?And the scarlet verbenas, and the larkspurs,And the row of flaming salvia....Those roses ... they're Maréchal Niels ... my favorites.And little grandson, smell this spray of rose-geranium—Just think, when grandmother was a little tiny girlHer grandmother grew them in her yard!"
A pungent spray of rose-geranium—A breath of the old life.
It brings up the little five-room cottage where I was born,And where I grew through a smiling childhood.The white-bearded grandfather sits in his mended rocking-chair,His eyes far off, crooning "The Sweet By and By,"Marked with the tapping of his toe upon the weathered porch-floor,While the sunshine drizzles through the great oaks.
And there is my grandmother's kneeling figure,Turning over the rich black earth with her trowel;And the kind wrinkles on her face, as she says:"Didn't the pansies do finely this year, Clem?And the scarlet verbenas, and the larkspurs,And the row of flaming salvia....Those roses ... they're Maréchal Niels ... my favorites.And little grandson, smell this spray of rose-geranium—Just think, when grandmother was a little tiny girlHer grandmother grew them in her yard!"