Burges Johnson
By the side of a wall in a garden gay,A little Rose-bush grew;In the first dear days of the month of May,Loved by the sun and dew.It gazed to the top of the wall so highWith happy longing and pride,When it heard the children laugh and cryAs they passed on the other side.And into its leaves and buds there cameA beautiful thought of God."I can climb to the heights of love and fame,If my roots are in the sod."Then up and over the garden-wall,It clambered far and wide,Shedding its sweetness for one and allAs they passed on the other side,—The weary laborer, the beggar cold,The wise man and the fool,The mother and daughter, the grandam oldAnd the children going to school.The breezes scattered its pink and whiteIn a perfumed shower for all,And the beautiful days of June were brightWith the Rose on the Garden-wall.Our hearts are like the Roses of June,They can live for one and all,Giving their love as a blessed boon,From a palace or cottage wall.
By the side of a wall in a garden gay,A little Rose-bush grew;In the first dear days of the month of May,Loved by the sun and dew.
It gazed to the top of the wall so highWith happy longing and pride,When it heard the children laugh and cryAs they passed on the other side.
And into its leaves and buds there cameA beautiful thought of God."I can climb to the heights of love and fame,If my roots are in the sod."
Then up and over the garden-wall,It clambered far and wide,Shedding its sweetness for one and allAs they passed on the other side,—
The weary laborer, the beggar cold,The wise man and the fool,The mother and daughter, the grandam oldAnd the children going to school.
The breezes scattered its pink and whiteIn a perfumed shower for all,And the beautiful days of June were brightWith the Rose on the Garden-wall.
Our hearts are like the Roses of June,They can live for one and all,Giving their love as a blessed boon,From a palace or cottage wall.
Emily Selinger
See the morning-glories hungOn the vine for me to use:Hark! A flower-bell has rung,I can talk now, if I choose."Hellow Central! Oh, hello!Give me Puck of Fairyland—Mr. Puck, I want to knowWhat I cannot understand."How the leaves are scalloped out;Where's the den of Dragon Fly?What do crickets chirp about?Where do flowers go when they die?"How far can a Fairy see?Why are woodsy things afraid?Who lives in the hollow tree?How are cobweb carpets made?"Why do Fairies hide?—Hello!What? I cannot understand—"That's the way they always do,They've cut me off from Fairyland!
See the morning-glories hungOn the vine for me to use:Hark! A flower-bell has rung,I can talk now, if I choose.
"Hellow Central! Oh, hello!Give me Puck of Fairyland—Mr. Puck, I want to knowWhat I cannot understand.
"How the leaves are scalloped out;Where's the den of Dragon Fly?What do crickets chirp about?Where do flowers go when they die?
"How far can a Fairy see?Why are woodsy things afraid?Who lives in the hollow tree?How are cobweb carpets made?
"Why do Fairies hide?—Hello!What? I cannot understand—"That's the way they always do,They've cut me off from Fairyland!
Abbie Farwell Brown
I went this morning down to where the Johnny-Jump-Ups growLike naughty purple faces nodding in a row.I stayed 'most all the morning there—I sat down on a stumpAnd watched and watched and watched them—and they never gave a jump!And Golden-Glow that stands up tall and yellow by the fence,It doesn't glow a single bit—it's only just pretence—I ran down after tea last night to watch them in the dark—I had to light a match to see; they didn't give a spark!And then the Bouncing Bets don't bounce—I tried them yesterday,I picked a big pink bunch down in the meadow where they stay,I took a piece of string I had and tied them in a ball,And threw them down as hard as hard—they never bounced at all!And tiger-lilies may look fierce, to meet them all alone,All tall and black and yellowy and nodding by a stone,But they're no more like tigers than the dogwood's like a dog,Or bulrushes are like a bull or toadwort like a frog!I like the flowers very much—they're pleasant as can beFor bunches on the table, and to pick and wear and see,But still it doesn't seem quite fair—it does seem very queer—They don't do what they're named for—not at any time of year!
I went this morning down to where the Johnny-Jump-Ups growLike naughty purple faces nodding in a row.I stayed 'most all the morning there—I sat down on a stumpAnd watched and watched and watched them—and they never gave a jump!
And Golden-Glow that stands up tall and yellow by the fence,It doesn't glow a single bit—it's only just pretence—I ran down after tea last night to watch them in the dark—I had to light a match to see; they didn't give a spark!
And then the Bouncing Bets don't bounce—I tried them yesterday,I picked a big pink bunch down in the meadow where they stay,I took a piece of string I had and tied them in a ball,And threw them down as hard as hard—they never bounced at all!
And tiger-lilies may look fierce, to meet them all alone,All tall and black and yellowy and nodding by a stone,But they're no more like tigers than the dogwood's like a dog,Or bulrushes are like a bull or toadwort like a frog!
I like the flowers very much—they're pleasant as can beFor bunches on the table, and to pick and wear and see,But still it doesn't seem quite fair—it does seem very queer—They don't do what they're named for—not at any time of year!
Margaret Widdemer
When storm clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down,
The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes among the bamboos.
Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.
Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.
They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner.
When the rains come down they have their holidays.
Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.
Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars are.
Haven't you seen how eager they are to get there? Don't you know why they are in such a hurry?
Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms: they have their mother as I have my own.
Rabindranath Tagore
My mother let me go with her,(I had been good all day),To see the iris flowers that bloomIn gardens far away.We walked and walked through hedges green,Through rice-fields empty still,To where we saw a garden gateBeneath the farthest hill.She pointed out the rows of "flowers";—I saw no planted things,But white and purple butterfliesTied down with silken strings.They strained and fluttered in the breeze,So eager to be free;I begged the man to let them go,But mother laughed at me.She said that they could never rise,Like birds, to heaven so blue.But even mothers do not knowSome things that children do.That night, the flowers untied themselvesAnd softly stole away,To fly in sunshine round my dreamsUntil the break of day.
My mother let me go with her,(I had been good all day),To see the iris flowers that bloomIn gardens far away.
We walked and walked through hedges green,Through rice-fields empty still,To where we saw a garden gateBeneath the farthest hill.
She pointed out the rows of "flowers";—I saw no planted things,But white and purple butterfliesTied down with silken strings.
They strained and fluttered in the breeze,So eager to be free;I begged the man to let them go,But mother laughed at me.
She said that they could never rise,Like birds, to heaven so blue.But even mothers do not knowSome things that children do.
That night, the flowers untied themselvesAnd softly stole away,To fly in sunshine round my dreamsUntil the break of day.
Mary McNeil Fenollosa
I'd love to sit on a clover-topAnd sway,And swing and shake, till the dew would dropIn spray;To croon a song for the bumble-beeTo leave his golden honey with me,And sway and swing, till the wind would stopTo play.I'd weave a hammock of spider-threadLoose-hung,Where grasses nodded above my headAnd swung.And all day long, while the hammock swayedI'd twine and tangle the sun and shade,Till the crickets' song, "It is time for bed!"Was sung.Then wrapped in a wee gold sunset cloudI'd lie,While night winds sang to the stars that crowdThe sky.And all night long, I would swing and sleepWhile fireflies lighted their lamps to peep—"Oh, hush!" they'd whisper, if frogs sang loud—"Oh hush-a-by!"
I'd love to sit on a clover-topAnd sway,And swing and shake, till the dew would dropIn spray;To croon a song for the bumble-beeTo leave his golden honey with me,And sway and swing, till the wind would stopTo play.
I'd weave a hammock of spider-threadLoose-hung,Where grasses nodded above my headAnd swung.And all day long, while the hammock swayedI'd twine and tangle the sun and shade,Till the crickets' song, "It is time for bed!"Was sung.
Then wrapped in a wee gold sunset cloudI'd lie,While night winds sang to the stars that crowdThe sky.And all night long, I would swing and sleepWhile fireflies lighted their lamps to peep—"Oh, hush!" they'd whisper, if frogs sang loud—"Oh hush-a-by!"
Charles Buxton Going
Near where I live there is a lakeAs blue as blue can be, winds makeIt dance as they go blowing by.I think it curtseys to the sky.It's just a lake of lovely flowers,And my Mamma says they are ours;But they are not like those we growTo be our very own, you know.We have a splendid garden, thereAre lots of flowers everywhere;Roses, and pinks, and four o'clocks,And hollyhocks, and evening stocks.Mamma lets us pick them, but neverMust we pick any gentians—ever!For if we carried them awayThey'd die of homesickness that day.
Near where I live there is a lakeAs blue as blue can be, winds makeIt dance as they go blowing by.I think it curtseys to the sky.
It's just a lake of lovely flowers,And my Mamma says they are ours;But they are not like those we growTo be our very own, you know.
We have a splendid garden, thereAre lots of flowers everywhere;Roses, and pinks, and four o'clocks,And hollyhocks, and evening stocks.
Mamma lets us pick them, but neverMust we pick any gentians—ever!For if we carried them awayThey'd die of homesickness that day.
Amy Lowell
As I was busy with my toolsThat make my garden neat,I heard a little crooked tuneCome drifting up the street.It didn't seem to have an endLike others that are plain;You always felt it going onTill it began again.It came quite near: I heard it call,And dropped my tools and ranTo peer out through the gate;I thought it might be Pan.But it was just the scissors-manWho walked along and playedUpon a little instrumentHe told me he had made.Now, if you hope to see a godAs hard to find as Pan,It's sad when it turns out to beA plain old scissors-man.But when my mother came to hearThe crooked tune he made,She said his instrument was likeSome pipes that Pan had played.And I must ask the scissors-manIf he had ever knownOr met a queer old god who playedOn pipes much like his own.He would not tell: and when I askedWho taught him how to play,He made that crooked tune again,And laughed and went away.
As I was busy with my toolsThat make my garden neat,I heard a little crooked tuneCome drifting up the street.
It didn't seem to have an endLike others that are plain;You always felt it going onTill it began again.
It came quite near: I heard it call,And dropped my tools and ranTo peer out through the gate;I thought it might be Pan.
But it was just the scissors-manWho walked along and playedUpon a little instrumentHe told me he had made.
Now, if you hope to see a godAs hard to find as Pan,It's sad when it turns out to beA plain old scissors-man.
But when my mother came to hearThe crooked tune he made,She said his instrument was likeSome pipes that Pan had played.
And I must ask the scissors-manIf he had ever knownOr met a queer old god who playedOn pipes much like his own.
He would not tell: and when I askedWho taught him how to play,He made that crooked tune again,And laughed and went away.
Grace Hazard Conkling
The years are flowers and bloom withinEternity's wide garden;The rose for joy, the thorn for sin,The gardener God, to pardonAll wilding growths, to prune, reclaim,And make them rose-like in His name.
The years are flowers and bloom withinEternity's wide garden;The rose for joy, the thorn for sin,The gardener God, to pardonAll wilding growths, to prune, reclaim,And make them rose-like in His name.
Richard Burton
The Lord God planted a gardenIn the first white days of the world,And He set there an angel wardenIn a garment of light enfurled.So near to the peace of Heaven,That the hawk might nest with the wren,For there in the cool of the evenGod walked with the first of men.And I dream that these garden-closesWith their shade and their sun-flecked sodAnd their lilies and bowers of roses,Were laid by the hand of God.The kiss of the sun for pardon,The song of the birds for mirth,—One is nearer God's heart in a gardenThan anywhere else on earth.
The Lord God planted a gardenIn the first white days of the world,And He set there an angel wardenIn a garment of light enfurled.
So near to the peace of Heaven,That the hawk might nest with the wren,For there in the cool of the evenGod walked with the first of men.
And I dream that these garden-closesWith their shade and their sun-flecked sodAnd their lilies and bowers of roses,Were laid by the hand of God.
The kiss of the sun for pardon,The song of the birds for mirth,—One is nearer God's heart in a gardenThan anywhere else on earth.
Dorothy Frances Gurney
Ever the garden has a spiritual word:In the slow lapses of unnoticed timeIt drops from heaven, or upward learns to climb,Breathing an earthly sweetness, as a birdIs in the porches of the morning heard;So, in the garden, flower to flower will chime,And with the music thought and feeling rhyme,And the hushed soul is with new glory stirred.Beauty is silent,—through the summer daySleeps in her gold,—O wondrous sunlit gold,Frosting the lilies, virginal array!Green, full-leaved walls the fragrant sculpture hold,Warm, orient blooms!—how motionless are they—Speechless—the eternal loveliness untold!
Ever the garden has a spiritual word:In the slow lapses of unnoticed timeIt drops from heaven, or upward learns to climb,Breathing an earthly sweetness, as a birdIs in the porches of the morning heard;So, in the garden, flower to flower will chime,And with the music thought and feeling rhyme,And the hushed soul is with new glory stirred.
Beauty is silent,—through the summer daySleeps in her gold,—O wondrous sunlit gold,Frosting the lilies, virginal array!Green, full-leaved walls the fragrant sculpture hold,Warm, orient blooms!—how motionless are they—Speechless—the eternal loveliness untold!
George E. Woodberry
Life has loveliness to sell,All beautiful and splendid things,Blue waves whitened on a cliff,Soaring fire that sways and sings,And children's faces looking upHolding wonder like a cup.Life has loveliness to sell,Music like a curve of gold,Scent of pine trees in the rain,Eyes that love you, arms that hold,And for your spirit's still delight,Holy thoughts that star the night.Spend all you have for loveliness,Buy it and never count the cost;For one white singing hour of peaceCount many a year of strife well lost,And for a breath of ecstasyGive all you have been, or could be.
Life has loveliness to sell,All beautiful and splendid things,Blue waves whitened on a cliff,Soaring fire that sways and sings,And children's faces looking upHolding wonder like a cup.
Life has loveliness to sell,Music like a curve of gold,Scent of pine trees in the rain,Eyes that love you, arms that hold,And for your spirit's still delight,Holy thoughts that star the night.
Spend all you have for loveliness,Buy it and never count the cost;For one white singing hour of peaceCount many a year of strife well lost,And for a breath of ecstasyGive all you have been, or could be.
Sara Teasdale
Drop me the seed, that I, even in my brain,May be its nourishing earth. No mortal knowsFrom what immortal granary comes the grain,Nor how the earth conspires to make the rose;But from the dust and from the wetted mudComes help, given or taken; so with meDeep in my brain the essence of my bloodShall give it stature until Beauty be.It will look down, even as the burning flowerSmiles upon June, long after I am gone.Dust-footed Time will never tell its hour,Through dusty Time its rose will draw men on,Through dusty Time its beauty shall make plainMan, and, Without, a spirit scattering grain.
Drop me the seed, that I, even in my brain,May be its nourishing earth. No mortal knowsFrom what immortal granary comes the grain,Nor how the earth conspires to make the rose;
But from the dust and from the wetted mudComes help, given or taken; so with meDeep in my brain the essence of my bloodShall give it stature until Beauty be.
It will look down, even as the burning flowerSmiles upon June, long after I am gone.Dust-footed Time will never tell its hour,Through dusty Time its rose will draw men on,
Through dusty Time its beauty shall make plainMan, and, Without, a spirit scattering grain.
John Masefield
The dull ox, Sorrow, treads my heart,Dragging the harrow, Pain,And turning the old year's tillageUnder the sod again.So, well do I know the TillerWill bring once more the grain;For grief comes never to the strong—Nor dull despair's benumbing wrong—But from them spring a hidden throngOf seeds, for new life fain.So heavily do I let the hoofsTrample the deeps of me;For only thus is spiritBrought to fecundity.But when the ox is stabledAnd the harrow set aside,With calm I watch a new world grow,Sweetly green, up out of woe,And, glad of the Tiller, then I knowHe too is satisfied.
The dull ox, Sorrow, treads my heart,Dragging the harrow, Pain,And turning the old year's tillageUnder the sod again.So, well do I know the TillerWill bring once more the grain;For grief comes never to the strong—Nor dull despair's benumbing wrong—But from them spring a hidden throngOf seeds, for new life fain.
So heavily do I let the hoofsTrample the deeps of me;For only thus is spiritBrought to fecundity.But when the ox is stabledAnd the harrow set aside,With calm I watch a new world grow,Sweetly green, up out of woe,And, glad of the Tiller, then I knowHe too is satisfied.
Cale Young Rice
Now shall your beauty never fade;For it was budding when you passedBeyond this glare, into the shadeOf fairer gardens unforecast,Where, by the dreaded Gardener's spade,Beauty, transplanted once, shall ever last.Now never shall that glorious breastWither, those deft hands lose their art,Nor those glad shoulders be oppressedBy failing breath or fluttering heart,Nor, from the cheek by dawn possessed,The subtle ecstasy of hue depart.Forever shall you be your best,—Nay, far more luminously shineThan when our comradeship was blessedBy what on earth seemed most divine,Before your body passed to restWith what I then supposed this heart of mine.Now shall your bud of beauty blowFar lovelier than I knew beforeWhen, such a little time ago,I looked upon your face, and sworeThat Helen's never moved men soWhen her white, magic hands enkindled war.As you sweep on from power to powerShall every earthward thought you thinkIrradiate my lonely hourTill I shall taste the golden drinkOf Life, and see the full-blown flower,Whose opening bud was mine, beyond the brink.
Now shall your beauty never fade;For it was budding when you passedBeyond this glare, into the shadeOf fairer gardens unforecast,Where, by the dreaded Gardener's spade,Beauty, transplanted once, shall ever last.
Now never shall that glorious breastWither, those deft hands lose their art,Nor those glad shoulders be oppressedBy failing breath or fluttering heart,Nor, from the cheek by dawn possessed,The subtle ecstasy of hue depart.
Forever shall you be your best,—Nay, far more luminously shineThan when our comradeship was blessedBy what on earth seemed most divine,Before your body passed to restWith what I then supposed this heart of mine.
Now shall your bud of beauty blowFar lovelier than I knew beforeWhen, such a little time ago,I looked upon your face, and sworeThat Helen's never moved men soWhen her white, magic hands enkindled war.
As you sweep on from power to powerShall every earthward thought you thinkIrradiate my lonely hourTill I shall taste the golden drinkOf Life, and see the full-blown flower,Whose opening bud was mine, beyond the brink.
Robert Haven Schauffler
Here in this ancient gardenWhen Winter days had flownI came, with Comrade SorrowTo dwell with her alone.Here in this sweet seclusionFar from the World's cold stareWhat exquisite communingsSorrow and I would share!What banquets of remembrance!What luxury of tears!With Sorrow in a gardenThrough the rose-scented years!But one day when she called meI did not hear her voice;I only heard the liliesWhich sang "Rejoice, rejoice!"The world was gold and azureThe air was sweet with birds;My garden laughed with raptureHow could I hear her words?For June was in the gardenAnd June was in my heart,And since that hour pale SorrowAnd I have dwelt apart.But often in the twilightWhen birds and gardens sleepI feel her presence with meHer arms about me creep.And when the ghosts of SummerWith the dead roses talk,I hear her softly sobbingAlong the moonlit walk.I never can forget herSo intimate were we!But Sorrow, in my gardenAbides no more with me.
Here in this ancient gardenWhen Winter days had flownI came, with Comrade SorrowTo dwell with her alone.
Here in this sweet seclusionFar from the World's cold stareWhat exquisite communingsSorrow and I would share!
What banquets of remembrance!What luxury of tears!With Sorrow in a gardenThrough the rose-scented years!
But one day when she called meI did not hear her voice;I only heard the liliesWhich sang "Rejoice, rejoice!"
The world was gold and azureThe air was sweet with birds;My garden laughed with raptureHow could I hear her words?
For June was in the gardenAnd June was in my heart,And since that hour pale SorrowAnd I have dwelt apart.
But often in the twilightWhen birds and gardens sleepI feel her presence with meHer arms about me creep.
And when the ghosts of SummerWith the dead roses talk,I hear her softly sobbingAlong the moonlit walk.
I never can forget herSo intimate were we!But Sorrow, in my gardenAbides no more with me.
May Riley Smith
The pale mothTrembles in the white moonlight;Thus my heart trembles with love!The rose petals fall—The red petals of my heart;Oh, the breath of love!Cool, sweet tearsOf honey, the jasmine weeps;Burning fall the tears of love.Oh, how bitterIs the White Poppy, Death;There are no more dreams of love.
The pale mothTrembles in the white moonlight;Thus my heart trembles with love!
The rose petals fall—The red petals of my heart;Oh, the breath of love!
Cool, sweet tearsOf honey, the jasmine weeps;Burning fall the tears of love.
Oh, how bitterIs the White Poppy, Death;There are no more dreams of love.
Jeanne Robert Foster
I lift my heart as spring lifts upA yellow daisy to the rain;My heart will be a lovely cupAltho' it holds but pain.For I shall learn from flower and leafThat color every drop they hold,To change the lifeless wine of griefTo living gold.
I lift my heart as spring lifts upA yellow daisy to the rain;My heart will be a lovely cupAltho' it holds but pain.
For I shall learn from flower and leafThat color every drop they hold,To change the lifeless wine of griefTo living gold.
Sara Teasdale
Late in the evening, when the room had grownToo hot and tiresome with its flaring lightAnd noisy voices, I stole out aloneInto the darkness of the summer night.Down the long garden-walk I slowly went,A little wind was stirring in the trees;I only saw the whitest of the flowers,And I was sorry that the earlier hoursOf that fair evening had been so ill spent,Because I said, "I am content with theseDear friends of mine who only speak to meWith their delicious fragrance, and who tellTo me their gracious welcome silently."The leaves that touch my hand with dew are wet;I find the tall white lilies I love well.I linger as I pass the mignonette,And what surprise could clearer be than this:To find my sweet rose waiting with a kiss!
Late in the evening, when the room had grownToo hot and tiresome with its flaring lightAnd noisy voices, I stole out aloneInto the darkness of the summer night.
Down the long garden-walk I slowly went,A little wind was stirring in the trees;I only saw the whitest of the flowers,And I was sorry that the earlier hoursOf that fair evening had been so ill spent,Because I said, "I am content with theseDear friends of mine who only speak to meWith their delicious fragrance, and who tellTo me their gracious welcome silently."
The leaves that touch my hand with dew are wet;I find the tall white lilies I love well.I linger as I pass the mignonette,And what surprise could clearer be than this:To find my sweet rose waiting with a kiss!
Sarah Orne Jewett
There is a hillside garden that their tender hands have tended,Below a house that holds for me a shrine of joy and light.And there beneath a cloudless sun when June is warm and splendidI see them coming home to me, three girls in garments white.Alice with lilies in her hands, and little dark DoloresShowing her glowing marigolds; and Iris last of allUnder the arbor by the wall of purple morning-glories,Bringing my crimson ramblers back that sought to scale the wall.Alice with smiles along her lips; Dolores still and tender;Iris whose eyes can tell me more than tongue shall ever say;They offer to my open arms their bodies soft and slender,Bringing the best of summer here, they garlanded to-day.Into my study they have swept, and brasses from Benares,Vases from Venice they have filled, and hung their wreaths aroundThe portrait where their mother smiles like the tall tranquil MariesThat Perugino used to paint, with hair like sunlight crowned."Mother is coming home to-day." (The words themselves are singing.)"How long it is," our litany, forgotten, they repeat,Making their last response to love, their last oblation bringingTill at the hour of evensong, their voices still more sweet,Tremble and sanctify the house where happy hearts shall meet.
There is a hillside garden that their tender hands have tended,Below a house that holds for me a shrine of joy and light.And there beneath a cloudless sun when June is warm and splendidI see them coming home to me, three girls in garments white.
Alice with lilies in her hands, and little dark DoloresShowing her glowing marigolds; and Iris last of allUnder the arbor by the wall of purple morning-glories,Bringing my crimson ramblers back that sought to scale the wall.
Alice with smiles along her lips; Dolores still and tender;Iris whose eyes can tell me more than tongue shall ever say;They offer to my open arms their bodies soft and slender,Bringing the best of summer here, they garlanded to-day.
Into my study they have swept, and brasses from Benares,Vases from Venice they have filled, and hung their wreaths aroundThe portrait where their mother smiles like the tall tranquil MariesThat Perugino used to paint, with hair like sunlight crowned.
"Mother is coming home to-day." (The words themselves are singing.)"How long it is," our litany, forgotten, they repeat,Making their last response to love, their last oblation bringingTill at the hour of evensong, their voices still more sweet,Tremble and sanctify the house where happy hearts shall meet.
John Curtis Underwood
When to the garden of untroubled thoughtI came of late, and saw the open door,And wished again to enter, and exploreThe sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwroughtAnd bowers of innocence with beauty fraught,It seemed some purer voice must speak beforeI dared to tread that garden loved of yore,That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.Then just within the gate I saw a child,—A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear;He held his hands to me, and softly smiledWith eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear:"Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me;I am the little child you used to be."
When to the garden of untroubled thoughtI came of late, and saw the open door,And wished again to enter, and exploreThe sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwroughtAnd bowers of innocence with beauty fraught,It seemed some purer voice must speak beforeI dared to tread that garden loved of yore,That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.
Then just within the gate I saw a child,—A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear;He held his hands to me, and softly smiledWith eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear:"Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me;I am the little child you used to be."
Henry van Dyke
"And a little child shall lead them"Into her world, beneath her smiling skies;A little child with wide, wondering eyesDeep with the mystery that in them lies.Her soft hand plucks a stem asunder,And with the dream that is a partOf Childhood's heart,She questions:"Now I want to wonder!"She "wants to wonder" how so fair a thingIs born; from what it springs, and why it blooms:Whence comes its sweet, elusive odor rare,—The garnered fragrance of a hundred Junes.Was it all planned,—or just some lovely blunder?Thus gazing, with the seeking look that liesIn Childhood's eyes,She questions:"Now I want to wonder!"Dear Child, your groping mind seeks far and true:Mankind and Nature,—all "want to wonder" too.
"And a little child shall lead them"Into her world, beneath her smiling skies;A little child with wide, wondering eyesDeep with the mystery that in them lies.Her soft hand plucks a stem asunder,And with the dream that is a partOf Childhood's heart,She questions:"Now I want to wonder!"
She "wants to wonder" how so fair a thingIs born; from what it springs, and why it blooms:Whence comes its sweet, elusive odor rare,—The garnered fragrance of a hundred Junes.Was it all planned,—or just some lovely blunder?Thus gazing, with the seeking look that liesIn Childhood's eyes,She questions:"Now I want to wonder!"
Dear Child, your groping mind seeks far and true:Mankind and Nature,—all "want to wonder" too.
Frederic A. Whiting
Pines, and a blur of lithe young grasses;Gold in a pool, from the western glow;Spread of wings where the last thrush passes—And thoughts of you as the sun dips low.Quiet lane, and an irised meadow ...(How many summers have died since then?) ...I wish you knew how the deepening shadowLies on the blue and green again!Dusk, and the curve of field and hollowEtched in gray when a star appears:Sunset,... twilight,... and dark to follow,...And thoughts of you thro' a mist of tears.
Pines, and a blur of lithe young grasses;Gold in a pool, from the western glow;Spread of wings where the last thrush passes—And thoughts of you as the sun dips low.
Quiet lane, and an irised meadow ...(How many summers have died since then?) ...I wish you knew how the deepening shadowLies on the blue and green again!
Dusk, and the curve of field and hollowEtched in gray when a star appears:Sunset,... twilight,... and dark to follow,...And thoughts of you thro' a mist of tears.
Ruth Guthrie Harding
I am weary. I would restOn the wide earth's swelling breast,Nurtured by the quiet sodWhere the fragrant dew has trod,Soothed by all the winds that pass,Hearing voices in the grassOf the little insect thingsHappier than the mightiest kings!I am weary. I would sleepIn some quiet perfumed deepWhere no human touch could bringTears to me or anything.There I would forget to weepAnd my silent cloister keep,—There I would the earth embraceMeeting Beauty face to face.I am weary. I would goWhere the fields are white with snow,Where the violets are lainFar from human strife and pain—Far from longing and delight,Thro' the endless starry night,There I would forget to weep,And my silent cloister keep.
I am weary. I would restOn the wide earth's swelling breast,Nurtured by the quiet sodWhere the fragrant dew has trod,Soothed by all the winds that pass,Hearing voices in the grassOf the little insect thingsHappier than the mightiest kings!
I am weary. I would sleepIn some quiet perfumed deepWhere no human touch could bringTears to me or anything.There I would forget to weepAnd my silent cloister keep,—There I would the earth embraceMeeting Beauty face to face.
I am weary. I would goWhere the fields are white with snow,Where the violets are lainFar from human strife and pain—Far from longing and delight,Thro' the endless starry night,There I would forget to weep,And my silent cloister keep.
Blanche Shoemaker Wagstaff
Who would not praise thee, miracle of Frost?Some gesture overnight, some breath benign,And lo! the tree's a fountain all a-shine,The hedge a throne of unimagined cost;In wheel and fan along a wall embossed,The spider's humble handiwork shows fineWith jewels girdling every airy line;Though the small mason in the cold be lost.Web after web, a morning snare of blissStarring with beauty the whole neighbourhood,May well beget an envy clean and good.When man goes too into the earth-abyss,And God in His altered garden walks, I wouldMy secret woof might gleam so fair as this.
Who would not praise thee, miracle of Frost?Some gesture overnight, some breath benign,And lo! the tree's a fountain all a-shine,The hedge a throne of unimagined cost;In wheel and fan along a wall embossed,The spider's humble handiwork shows fineWith jewels girdling every airy line;Though the small mason in the cold be lost.
Web after web, a morning snare of blissStarring with beauty the whole neighbourhood,May well beget an envy clean and good.When man goes too into the earth-abyss,And God in His altered garden walks, I wouldMy secret woof might gleam so fair as this.
Louise Imogen Guiney
The Spring blew trumpets of color;Her Green sang in my brain—I heard a blind man groping"Tap—tap" with his cane;I pitied him his blindness;But can I boast, "I see?"Perhaps there walks a spiritClose by, who pities me,—A spirit who hears me tappingThe five-sensed cane of mindAmid such unguessed glories—That I—am worse than blind!
The Spring blew trumpets of color;Her Green sang in my brain—I heard a blind man groping"Tap—tap" with his cane;
I pitied him his blindness;But can I boast, "I see?"Perhaps there walks a spiritClose by, who pities me,—
A spirit who hears me tappingThe five-sensed cane of mindAmid such unguessed glories—That I—am worse than blind!
Harry Kemp
I do not know what sings in me—I only know it singsWhen pale the stars, and every treeIs glad with waking wings.I only know the air is sweetWith wondrous flowers unseen—That unaccountably completeIs June's accustomed green.The wind has magic in its touch;Strange dreams the sunsets give.Life I have questioned overmuch—To-day, I live.
I do not know what sings in me—I only know it singsWhen pale the stars, and every treeIs glad with waking wings.
I only know the air is sweetWith wondrous flowers unseen—That unaccountably completeIs June's accustomed green.
The wind has magic in its touch;Strange dreams the sunsets give.Life I have questioned overmuch—To-day, I live.
Amelia Josephine Burr
Now in the place where he was crucified there was a garden; and in the garden a new sepulchre.... The first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early ... unto the sepulchre.... And ... she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing.... Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned herself, and saith unto him ... Master. St. John.
Now in the place where he was crucified there was a garden; and in the garden a new sepulchre.... The first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early ... unto the sepulchre.... And ... she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing.... Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned herself, and saith unto him ... Master. St. John.
From silvering mid-sea to the Syrian sand,It was the time of blossom in the land.On field and hill and down the steep ravine,Ran foam and fire of bloom and ripple of green.The Sepulchre was open wide, and thrownAmong the crushed, hurt lilies lay the Stone.A light wind stirred the Garden: everywhereThe smell of myrrh was out upon the air.For three days He had traveled with the dead,And now was risen to go with stiller treadThe old earth ways again,To stay the heart and build the hope of men.He made a luster in that leafy place,His form serene, majestical; His faceTouched with a cryptic beauty like the seaLit by the moon when night begins to be.The cold gray east was warming into roseBeyond the steep ravine where Kedron goes.Now suddenly on the morning faint with flameJerusalem with all her clamors came—A snarl of noises from the far-off street,Dispute and barter and the clack of feet.A moment it brawled upward and was gone—Faded, forgotten in the deep still dawn.He passed across the morning: felt the cool,Keen, kindling air blown upward from the pool.A busy wind brought little tender smellsFrom barley fields and weeds by April wells.Up in the tree-tops where the breezes ranThe old sweet noises in the nests began;And once He paused to listen while a birdShouted the joy till all the Garden heard.There in the morning, on the old worn ways—New-risen from the sacrament of death—He looked toward Olivet with tender gaze:Old things of the heart came back from other days—The happy, homely shop in Nazareth;The noonday shadow of a wayside treeThat had befriended Him in Galilee;Sweet talks in Bethany by the chimney stone,And night-long lingering talks with John alone.And then He thought of all the weary menHe would have gathered as a mother henGathers her brood under her wings at night.And then He saw the ages in one flight,And heard as a great seaAll of the griefs that had been and must be....As He stood looking on the endless sky,Over the Garden went a sobbing cry.He turned, and saw where the tall almonds areHis Mary of Magdala, wildly pale,Fast-fleeting down the trail,And suddenly His face was like a star!He spoke; she knew—a blaze of happy tears;Then "Master!" ... and the word rings down the years!
From silvering mid-sea to the Syrian sand,It was the time of blossom in the land.On field and hill and down the steep ravine,Ran foam and fire of bloom and ripple of green.The Sepulchre was open wide, and thrownAmong the crushed, hurt lilies lay the Stone.A light wind stirred the Garden: everywhereThe smell of myrrh was out upon the air.For three days He had traveled with the dead,And now was risen to go with stiller treadThe old earth ways again,To stay the heart and build the hope of men.He made a luster in that leafy place,His form serene, majestical; His faceTouched with a cryptic beauty like the seaLit by the moon when night begins to be.
The cold gray east was warming into roseBeyond the steep ravine where Kedron goes.Now suddenly on the morning faint with flameJerusalem with all her clamors came—A snarl of noises from the far-off street,Dispute and barter and the clack of feet.A moment it brawled upward and was gone—Faded, forgotten in the deep still dawn.He passed across the morning: felt the cool,Keen, kindling air blown upward from the pool.A busy wind brought little tender smellsFrom barley fields and weeds by April wells.Up in the tree-tops where the breezes ranThe old sweet noises in the nests began;And once He paused to listen while a birdShouted the joy till all the Garden heard.
There in the morning, on the old worn ways—New-risen from the sacrament of death—He looked toward Olivet with tender gaze:Old things of the heart came back from other days—The happy, homely shop in Nazareth;The noonday shadow of a wayside treeThat had befriended Him in Galilee;Sweet talks in Bethany by the chimney stone,And night-long lingering talks with John alone.And then He thought of all the weary menHe would have gathered as a mother henGathers her brood under her wings at night.And then He saw the ages in one flight,And heard as a great seaAll of the griefs that had been and must be....
As He stood looking on the endless sky,Over the Garden went a sobbing cry.He turned, and saw where the tall almonds areHis Mary of Magdala, wildly pale,Fast-fleeting down the trail,And suddenly His face was like a star!He spoke; she knew—a blaze of happy tears;Then "Master!" ... and the word rings down the years!