Where the waves of burning cloud are rolledOn the further shore of the sunset sea,In a land of wonder that none behold,There blooms a rose on the Dreamland TreeThat stands in the Garden of MysteryWhere the River of Slumber softly flows;And whenever a dream has come to be,A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.In the heart of the tree, on a branch of gold,A silvern bird sings endlesslyA mystic song that is ages old,A mournful song in a minor key,Full of the glamour of faery;And whenever a dreamer's ears uncloseTo the sound of that distant melody,A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.Dreams and visions in hosts untoldThrong around on the moonlit lea:Dreams of age that are calm and cold,Dreams of youth that are fair and free—Dark with a lone heart's agony,Bright with a hope that no one knows—And whenever a dream and a dream agree,A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.ENVOIPrincess, you gaze in a reverieWhere the drowsy firelight redly glows;Slowly you raise your eyes to me ...A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.
Where the waves of burning cloud are rolledOn the further shore of the sunset sea,In a land of wonder that none behold,There blooms a rose on the Dreamland TreeThat stands in the Garden of MysteryWhere the River of Slumber softly flows;And whenever a dream has come to be,A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.
In the heart of the tree, on a branch of gold,A silvern bird sings endlesslyA mystic song that is ages old,A mournful song in a minor key,Full of the glamour of faery;And whenever a dreamer's ears uncloseTo the sound of that distant melody,A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.
Dreams and visions in hosts untoldThrong around on the moonlit lea:Dreams of age that are calm and cold,Dreams of youth that are fair and free—Dark with a lone heart's agony,Bright with a hope that no one knows—And whenever a dream and a dream agree,A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.
ENVOI
ENVOI
Princess, you gaze in a reverieWhere the drowsy firelight redly glows;Slowly you raise your eyes to me ...A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.
Brian Hooker
These flowers of JuneThe gates of memory unbar;These flowers of JuneSuch old-time harmonies retune,I fain would keep the gates ajar,So full of sweet enchantment areThese flowers of June.Was it the bloom of the laurel sprays,That wakened remembrance of singing birds?Or, was it the charm of remembered words,That set my heart singing through somber days?I longed for the summer-time, flower and tree;And lo! the summer-time came with thee.The bloom is no more, but the charm still stays.
These flowers of JuneThe gates of memory unbar;These flowers of JuneSuch old-time harmonies retune,I fain would keep the gates ajar,So full of sweet enchantment areThese flowers of June.
Was it the bloom of the laurel sprays,That wakened remembrance of singing birds?Or, was it the charm of remembered words,That set my heart singing through somber days?I longed for the summer-time, flower and tree;And lo! the summer-time came with thee.The bloom is no more, but the charm still stays.
James Terry White
There is a garden in the twilight landsOf Memory, where troops of butterfliesFlutter adown the cypress paths, and bandsOf flowers mysterious droop their drowsy eyes.There through the silken hush come footfalls faintAnd hurried through the vague parterres, and sighsWhispering of rapture or of sweet complaintLike ceaseless parle of bees and butterflies.And by one lonely pathway steal I soonTo find the flowerings of the old delightOur hearts together knew—when lo, the moonTurns all the cypress alleys into white.
There is a garden in the twilight landsOf Memory, where troops of butterfliesFlutter adown the cypress paths, and bandsOf flowers mysterious droop their drowsy eyes.
There through the silken hush come footfalls faintAnd hurried through the vague parterres, and sighsWhispering of rapture or of sweet complaintLike ceaseless parle of bees and butterflies.
And by one lonely pathway steal I soonTo find the flowerings of the old delightOur hearts together knew—when lo, the moonTurns all the cypress alleys into white.
Thomas Walsh
Dark is the iris meadow,Dark is the ivory tower,And lightly the young moth's shadowSleeps on the passion-flower.Gone are our day's red roses.So lovely and lost and few,But the first star unclosesA silver bud in the blue.Night, and a flame in the embersWhere the seal of the years was set,—When the almond-bough remembersHow shall my heart forget?
Dark is the iris meadow,Dark is the ivory tower,And lightly the young moth's shadowSleeps on the passion-flower.
Gone are our day's red roses.So lovely and lost and few,But the first star unclosesA silver bud in the blue.
Night, and a flame in the embersWhere the seal of the years was set,—When the almond-bough remembersHow shall my heart forget?
Marjorie L. C. Pickthall
What heart but fears a fragrance?Alien theyWho breathe in the white lilac only May;For there be other spirits unto whomFate's kiss lies dreaming in each stray perfume!Who mock at ghosts of odour—poor they be!Bereft the scented balms of memory,For unto one in April's rain-blest earthThere starts for aye the sharp, glad cry of birth;And Love will find in rooms unbarred for yearsFamiliar sweetness loosing sudden tears,Clasping the will in mastering embraceAs in the presence of a phantom grace.Then there be odours pungent—fires in FallThe gipsying of boyhood to recall;And there be perfumes holy—nay, but oneWhose pang is like none other 'neath the sunTo drown the sinking senses in a joyBeyond all time to weaken or destroy!Odours there be that swoon, entreat, caress—Elusive thrall, to doom or stab or bless;Each vagrant scent that holds the breath in feeDoth wed the heart in Life's eternity.Who fear no wraiths of fragrance—sorry they;Who breathe in lilac odours only May;For there be other mortals unto whomWhite magic wanders in each stray perfume.
What heart but fears a fragrance?Alien theyWho breathe in the white lilac only May;For there be other spirits unto whomFate's kiss lies dreaming in each stray perfume!
Who mock at ghosts of odour—poor they be!Bereft the scented balms of memory,For unto one in April's rain-blest earthThere starts for aye the sharp, glad cry of birth;And Love will find in rooms unbarred for yearsFamiliar sweetness loosing sudden tears,Clasping the will in mastering embraceAs in the presence of a phantom grace.
Then there be odours pungent—fires in FallThe gipsying of boyhood to recall;And there be perfumes holy—nay, but oneWhose pang is like none other 'neath the sunTo drown the sinking senses in a joyBeyond all time to weaken or destroy!Odours there be that swoon, entreat, caress—Elusive thrall, to doom or stab or bless;Each vagrant scent that holds the breath in feeDoth wed the heart in Life's eternity.
Who fear no wraiths of fragrance—sorry they;Who breathe in lilac odours only May;For there be other mortals unto whomWhite magic wanders in each stray perfume.
Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi
It is not sight or soundThat, when a heart forgets,Most makes it to remember:It's some old poignant scent re-found—Like breath of April violets,Or apples of September.It isn't song or sceneThat stirs the tears again:It's brush smoke from the hills at night,Spicy and sweet; or that wet, keen,Long lost aroma of delight,Fresh ploughed fields after rain.
It is not sight or soundThat, when a heart forgets,Most makes it to remember:It's some old poignant scent re-found—Like breath of April violets,Or apples of September.
It isn't song or sceneThat stirs the tears again:It's brush smoke from the hills at night,Spicy and sweet; or that wet, keen,Long lost aroma of delight,Fresh ploughed fields after rain.
Nancy Byrd Turner
Across the scented garden of my dreamsWhere roses grew, Time passes like a thief,Among my trees his silver sickle gleams,The grass is stained with many a ruddy leaf;And on cold winds the petals float awayThat were the pride of June and her array.The bare boughs weave a net upon the skyTo catch Love's wings and his fair body bruise;There are no flowers in the rosary—No song-birds in the mournful avenues;Though on the sodden air not lightly breaksThe elegy of Youth, whom love forsakes.Ah, Time! one flower of all my garden spare,One rose of all the roses, that in thisI may possess my love's perfumed hairAnd all the crimson secrets of her kiss.Grant me one rose that I may drink its wine,And from her lips win the last anodyne.For I have learnt too many things to live,And I have loved too many things to die;But all my barren acres I would giveFor one red blossom of eternity,To animate the darkness and delightThe spaces and the silences of night.But dreams are tender flowers that in their birthAre very near to death, and I shall reap,Who planted wonder, unavailing earth,Harsh thorns and miserable husks of sleep.I have had dreams, but have not conquered Time,And love shall vanish like an empty rhyme.
Across the scented garden of my dreamsWhere roses grew, Time passes like a thief,Among my trees his silver sickle gleams,The grass is stained with many a ruddy leaf;And on cold winds the petals float awayThat were the pride of June and her array.
The bare boughs weave a net upon the skyTo catch Love's wings and his fair body bruise;There are no flowers in the rosary—No song-birds in the mournful avenues;Though on the sodden air not lightly breaksThe elegy of Youth, whom love forsakes.
Ah, Time! one flower of all my garden spare,One rose of all the roses, that in thisI may possess my love's perfumed hairAnd all the crimson secrets of her kiss.Grant me one rose that I may drink its wine,And from her lips win the last anodyne.
For I have learnt too many things to live,And I have loved too many things to die;But all my barren acres I would giveFor one red blossom of eternity,To animate the darkness and delightThe spaces and the silences of night.
But dreams are tender flowers that in their birthAre very near to death, and I shall reap,Who planted wonder, unavailing earth,Harsh thorns and miserable husks of sleep.I have had dreams, but have not conquered Time,And love shall vanish like an empty rhyme.
Richard Middleton
Oh, tell me how my garden grows,Now I no more may labor there;Do still the lily and the roseBloom on without my fostering care?Do peonies blush as deep with pride,The larkspurs burn as bright a blue,And velvet pansies stare as wideI wonder, as they used to do?The tender things that would not blowUnless I coaxed them, do they raiseTheir petals in a sturdy row,Forgetful, to the stranger's gaze?Or do they show a paler shade,And sigh a little in the windFor one whose sheltering presence madeTheir step-dame Nature less unkind?Oh, tell me how my garden grows,Where I no more may take delight,And if some dream of me it knows,Who dream of it by day and night.
Oh, tell me how my garden grows,Now I no more may labor there;Do still the lily and the roseBloom on without my fostering care?
Do peonies blush as deep with pride,The larkspurs burn as bright a blue,And velvet pansies stare as wideI wonder, as they used to do?
The tender things that would not blowUnless I coaxed them, do they raiseTheir petals in a sturdy row,Forgetful, to the stranger's gaze?
Or do they show a paler shade,And sigh a little in the windFor one whose sheltering presence madeTheir step-dame Nature less unkind?
Oh, tell me how my garden grows,Where I no more may take delight,And if some dream of me it knows,Who dream of it by day and night.
Mildred Howells
This was her dearest walk last year. Her handsSet all the tiny plants, and tenderlyPressed firm the unfamiliar soil; and sheIt was who watered them at evening time.She loved them; and I too, because of her.And now another June has come, while IAm walking in the shadow, sad, alone.Yet when I reach the rose-path that was hers,And breathe the fragrancy of bud and bloom,She stands beside; the murmur of the leaves,The well-remembered rustle of her gown,And low her whisper comes, "My dear! My dear!"This is her garden. Only she and I—But always we—may walk its hallowed ways;And all the thoughts she planted in my heart,Sunned with her smile, and chastened with her tears,Again have blossomed—love's perennials.
This was her dearest walk last year. Her handsSet all the tiny plants, and tenderlyPressed firm the unfamiliar soil; and sheIt was who watered them at evening time.She loved them; and I too, because of her.And now another June has come, while IAm walking in the shadow, sad, alone.Yet when I reach the rose-path that was hers,And breathe the fragrancy of bud and bloom,She stands beside; the murmur of the leaves,The well-remembered rustle of her gown,And low her whisper comes, "My dear! My dear!"This is her garden. Only she and I—But always we—may walk its hallowed ways;And all the thoughts she planted in my heart,Sunned with her smile, and chastened with her tears,Again have blossomed—love's perennials.
Eldredge Denison
I knew her for a little ghostThat in my garden walked,—The wall is high—higher than most—And the green gate was locked;And yet I did not think of thatTill after she was gone;I knew her by the broad white hat,All ruffled, she had on,By the dear ruffles round her feet,By her small hands, that hungIn their lace mitts, austere and sweet,Her gown's white folds among.I watched to see if she would stay,What she would do,—and, oh,She looked as if she liked the wayI let my garden grow!She bent above my favorite mintWith conscious garden grace,She smiled and smiled,—there was no hintOf sadness in her face;She held her gown on either side,To let her slippers show,And up the walk she went with pride,The way great ladies go;And where the wall is built in new,And is of ivy bare,She paused,—then opened and passed throughA gate that once was there.
I knew her for a little ghostThat in my garden walked,—The wall is high—higher than most—And the green gate was locked;
And yet I did not think of thatTill after she was gone;I knew her by the broad white hat,All ruffled, she had on,
By the dear ruffles round her feet,By her small hands, that hungIn their lace mitts, austere and sweet,Her gown's white folds among.
I watched to see if she would stay,What she would do,—and, oh,She looked as if she liked the wayI let my garden grow!
She bent above my favorite mintWith conscious garden grace,She smiled and smiled,—there was no hintOf sadness in her face;
She held her gown on either side,To let her slippers show,And up the walk she went with pride,The way great ladies go;
And where the wall is built in new,And is of ivy bare,She paused,—then opened and passed throughA gate that once was there.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
A wan-cheeked girl with faded eyesCame stumbling down the crowded car,Clutching her burden to her breastAs though she held a star.Roses, I swear it! Red and sweetAnd struggling from her pinched white hands,Roses ... like captured hostagesFrom far and fairy lands!The thunder of the rushing trainWas like a hush.... The flower scentBreathed faintly on the stale, whirled airLike some dim sacrament—I saw a garden stretching outAnd morning on it like a crown—And o'er a bed of crimson bloomMy mother ... stooping down.
A wan-cheeked girl with faded eyesCame stumbling down the crowded car,Clutching her burden to her breastAs though she held a star.
Roses, I swear it! Red and sweetAnd struggling from her pinched white hands,Roses ... like captured hostagesFrom far and fairy lands!
The thunder of the rushing trainWas like a hush.... The flower scentBreathed faintly on the stale, whirled airLike some dim sacrament—
I saw a garden stretching outAnd morning on it like a crown—And o'er a bed of crimson bloomMy mother ... stooping down.
Dana Burnet
That we are mortals and on earth must dwellThou knowest, Allah, and didst give us bread—And remembering of our souls didst give us food of flowers—Thy name be hallowed.
That we are mortals and on earth must dwellThou knowest, Allah, and didst give us bread—And remembering of our souls didst give us food of flowers—Thy name be hallowed.
Thomas Walsh
In the garden-close at Mezra,When the cactus was in flower,We sat apart togetherThrough the languid noonday hour.I was her Arab lover,(Of course it was all in play!)And I called her "Star-of-Twilight,"And I called her "Dream-of-Day."She—has she quite forgotten?Soothly, I do not knowIf ever she tenderly opensThe volume of Long Ago.But I—I can still rememberHer lips like the cactus flowerIn the garden-close at MezraAt the languid noonday hour!
In the garden-close at Mezra,When the cactus was in flower,We sat apart togetherThrough the languid noonday hour.
I was her Arab lover,(Of course it was all in play!)And I called her "Star-of-Twilight,"And I called her "Dream-of-Day."
She—has she quite forgotten?Soothly, I do not knowIf ever she tenderly opensThe volume of Long Ago.
But I—I can still rememberHer lips like the cactus flowerIn the garden-close at MezraAt the languid noonday hour!
Clinton Scollard
The scarlet flower, with never a sister-leaf,Stemless, springs from the edge of the Cactus-thorn:Thus from the rugged wounds of desperate griefA beautiful Thought, perfect and pure, is born.
The scarlet flower, with never a sister-leaf,Stemless, springs from the edge of the Cactus-thorn:Thus from the rugged wounds of desperate griefA beautiful Thought, perfect and pure, is born.
Laurence Hope
Here where the sunlightFloodeth the garden,Where the pomegranateReareth its gloryOf gorgeous blossom;Where the oleandersDream through the noontides;And, like surf o' the seaRound cliffs of basalt,The thick magnoliasIn billowy massesFront the sombre green of the ilexes:Here where the heat liesPale blue in the hollows,Where blue are the shadowsOn the fronds of the cactus,Where pale blue the gleamingOf fir and cypress,With the cones upon themAmber or glowing with virgin gold:Here where the honey-flowerMakes the heat fragrant,As though from the gardensOf Gulistan,Where the bulbul singethThrough a mist of rosesA breath were borne:Here where the dream-flowers,The cream-white poppiesSilently waver,And where the Scirocco,Faint in the hollows,Foldeth his soft white wings in the sunlight,And lieth sleepingDeep in the heart ofA sea of white violets:Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty,Moveth in silence, and dreamlike, and slowly,White as a snow-drift in mountain-valleysWhen softly upon it the gold light lingers:White as the foam o' the sea that is drivenO'er billows of azure agleam with sun-yellow:Cream-white and soft as the breasts of a girl,Moves the White Peacock, as though through the noontideA dream of the moonlight were real for a moment.Dim on the beautiful fan that he spreadeth,Foldeth and spreadeth abroad in the sunlight,Dim on the cream-white are blue adumbrations,Shadows so pale in their delicate bluenessThat visions they seem as of vanishing violets,The fragrant white violets veined with azure,Pale, pale as the breath of blue smoke in far woodlands.Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty,White as the cloud through the heats of the noontideMoves the White Peacock.
Here where the sunlightFloodeth the garden,Where the pomegranateReareth its gloryOf gorgeous blossom;Where the oleandersDream through the noontides;And, like surf o' the seaRound cliffs of basalt,The thick magnoliasIn billowy massesFront the sombre green of the ilexes:Here where the heat liesPale blue in the hollows,Where blue are the shadowsOn the fronds of the cactus,Where pale blue the gleamingOf fir and cypress,With the cones upon themAmber or glowing with virgin gold:Here where the honey-flowerMakes the heat fragrant,As though from the gardensOf Gulistan,Where the bulbul singethThrough a mist of rosesA breath were borne:Here where the dream-flowers,The cream-white poppiesSilently waver,And where the Scirocco,Faint in the hollows,Foldeth his soft white wings in the sunlight,And lieth sleepingDeep in the heart ofA sea of white violets:Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty,Moveth in silence, and dreamlike, and slowly,White as a snow-drift in mountain-valleysWhen softly upon it the gold light lingers:White as the foam o' the sea that is drivenO'er billows of azure agleam with sun-yellow:Cream-white and soft as the breasts of a girl,Moves the White Peacock, as though through the noontideA dream of the moonlight were real for a moment.Dim on the beautiful fan that he spreadeth,Foldeth and spreadeth abroad in the sunlight,Dim on the cream-white are blue adumbrations,Shadows so pale in their delicate bluenessThat visions they seem as of vanishing violets,The fragrant white violets veined with azure,Pale, pale as the breath of blue smoke in far woodlands.Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty,White as the cloud through the heats of the noontideMoves the White Peacock.
William Sharp
Once at Isola Bella,With sunset in the sky,We stood on the topmost terrace—You and I.Around us Lago Maggiore,Incomparably fair,Gave back the hues of heavenTo the Italian air.Then up the marble terraceBelow the cypress treesCame a flock of milk-white peacocksWith fans spread to the breeze.Rose-pink on each outspread feather,Rose-pink upon the crest,—Never were birds in plumageSo ravishingly drest!Wherever we walked they followed,Stately at our feet,No picture so enchantingWill any hour repeat.And here in the murky cityThose milk-white peacocks seemTo follow and follow me everLike ghosts of a haunting dream.
Once at Isola Bella,With sunset in the sky,We stood on the topmost terrace—You and I.
Around us Lago Maggiore,Incomparably fair,Gave back the hues of heavenTo the Italian air.
Then up the marble terraceBelow the cypress treesCame a flock of milk-white peacocksWith fans spread to the breeze.
Rose-pink on each outspread feather,Rose-pink upon the crest,—Never were birds in plumageSo ravishingly drest!
Wherever we walked they followed,Stately at our feet,No picture so enchantingWill any hour repeat.
And here in the murky cityThose milk-white peacocks seemTo follow and follow me everLike ghosts of a haunting dream.
Jessie B. Rittenhouse
All through the deep blue nightThe fountain sang alone;It sang to the drowsy heartOf the satyr carved in stone.The fountain sang and sangBut the satyr never stirred—Only the great white moonIn the empty heaven heard.The fountain sang and sangWhile on the marble rimThe milk-white peacocks slept,And their dreams were strange and dim.Bright dew was on the grass,And on the ilex, dew,The dreamy milk-white birdsWere all a-glisten, too.The fountain sang and sangThe things one cannot tell;The dreaming peacocks stirredAnd the gleaming dew-drops fell.
All through the deep blue nightThe fountain sang alone;It sang to the drowsy heartOf the satyr carved in stone.
The fountain sang and sangBut the satyr never stirred—Only the great white moonIn the empty heaven heard.
The fountain sang and sangWhile on the marble rimThe milk-white peacocks slept,And their dreams were strange and dim.
Bright dew was on the grass,And on the ilex, dew,The dreamy milk-white birdsWere all a-glisten, too.
The fountain sang and sangThe things one cannot tell;The dreaming peacocks stirredAnd the gleaming dew-drops fell.
Sara Teasdale
Supposing I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?
You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.
When after the midday meal you sat at the window readingRamayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading.
But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child?
When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
"Where have you been, you naughty child?"
"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say then.
Rabindranath Tagore
Can it be winter otherwhere?Forsooth, it seems not so!The moonlight on the garden squareMust be the only snow,For all about me, fragrant fair,The blooms of summer blow.Wine-lipped and beautiful and bland,The rose displays its dower;The heavy-scented citron andThe stainless lily-tower;And whiter than a houri's hand,El Ful, the Arab flower.In purple silhouette a palmLifts from a vine-wreathed plinthAgainst a sky whose cloudless calmIs hued like hyacinth;And echoes with a bulbul's psalmThe jasmine labyrinth.In life's tumultuous ocean swellHere is a charmèd isle;I hear a late muezzin tellHis holy tale the while,And like the faint notes of a bellThe boat-songs of old Nile.Across my spirit thrills no themeThat is not marvel-bright;I see within the lotus gleamThe nectar of delight,And, tasting it, I drift and dreamAdown the glamoured night!
Can it be winter otherwhere?Forsooth, it seems not so!The moonlight on the garden squareMust be the only snow,For all about me, fragrant fair,The blooms of summer blow.
Wine-lipped and beautiful and bland,The rose displays its dower;The heavy-scented citron andThe stainless lily-tower;And whiter than a houri's hand,El Ful, the Arab flower.
In purple silhouette a palmLifts from a vine-wreathed plinthAgainst a sky whose cloudless calmIs hued like hyacinth;And echoes with a bulbul's psalmThe jasmine labyrinth.
In life's tumultuous ocean swellHere is a charmèd isle;I hear a late muezzin tellHis holy tale the while,And like the faint notes of a bellThe boat-songs of old Nile.
Across my spirit thrills no themeThat is not marvel-bright;I see within the lotus gleamThe nectar of delight,And, tasting it, I drift and dreamAdown the glamoured night!
Clinton Scollard
Peaceful and mellow looks the sky to-nightAs some great Buddha made of ivory,Upon whose brow is set a moonstone white,The shining emblem of its purity.A dim blue haze like incense, rising high,Merges together mountain, tree, and stream;But over all still broods an ivory skyCloudless as Buddha's face, one gem agleam.
Peaceful and mellow looks the sky to-nightAs some great Buddha made of ivory,Upon whose brow is set a moonstone white,The shining emblem of its purity.
A dim blue haze like incense, rising high,Merges together mountain, tree, and stream;But over all still broods an ivory skyCloudless as Buddha's face, one gem agleam.
Antoinette de Coursey Patterson
When I looked into your eyes,I saw a gardenWith peonies, and tinkling pagodas,And round-arched bridgesOver still lakes.A woman sat beside the waterIn a rain-blue, silken garment.She reached through the waterTo pluck the crimson peoniesBeneath the surface.But as she grasped the stems,They jarred and broke into white-green ripples.And as she drew out her hand,The water drops dripping from itStained her rain-blue dress like tears.
When I looked into your eyes,I saw a gardenWith peonies, and tinkling pagodas,And round-arched bridgesOver still lakes.
A woman sat beside the waterIn a rain-blue, silken garment.She reached through the waterTo pluck the crimson peoniesBeneath the surface.
But as she grasped the stems,They jarred and broke into white-green ripples.And as she drew out her hand,The water drops dripping from itStained her rain-blue dress like tears.
Amy Lowell
Do you remember, Sister,The golden afternoonWhen we looked upon the lotusAnd listened to the croonOf the doves that sat togetherAmong the flowers of June?And deep among the valleysA far, sweet sound was heard—Some fluter in the forestThat like a magic birdSang of the unseen heavensAnd mystic Way and Word.
Do you remember, Sister,The golden afternoonWhen we looked upon the lotusAnd listened to the croonOf the doves that sat togetherAmong the flowers of June?
And deep among the valleysA far, sweet sound was heard—Some fluter in the forestThat like a magic birdSang of the unseen heavensAnd mystic Way and Word.
Pai Ta-Shun
I hear no more the swish of silksAlong the marble walks;The autumn wind blows sharp and coldAmong the flowerless stalks.In place of petals of the peachFast drifts the yellow leaf;And looking in the lotus-pondI see one face of grief.
I hear no more the swish of silksAlong the marble walks;The autumn wind blows sharp and coldAmong the flowerless stalks.
In place of petals of the peachFast drifts the yellow leaf;And looking in the lotus-pondI see one face of grief.
Pai Ta-Shun
All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail,Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale.Below the Sabine mountainThe tossed and slender fountainWill curve, a lily pale;And where the plumed pine soars tallest,'Tis there, O nightingale, thou callest;Where the loud water leaps the highest.'Tis there, O nightingale, thou criest;In the dripping luscious dark,Hark, oh, hark!Wonderful, delirious,Soul of joy mysterious.A garden full of fragrances,Of pauses and of cadences,Whence come they all?Of cypresses and ilex-trees,Plumes and dark candles like to theseWere long ago Persephone's.All night within that gardenThe glimmering gods of stone,The satyrs and the naiadsWill laugh to be alone,In starless courts of shadowsBy silence overgrown,Save for the nightingale'sWild lyric thither blown.By pools and dusky closesDim shapes will move about,Twirled wands and masks and faces,Dancers and wreaths of roses,The moonlight's trick, no doubt.A naked nymph upon the stair,A sculptured vine that clasps the air,—And then one Bacchic bird somewhereWill pour his passion out.All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail,Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale.Down yonder velvet alley,Floats Daphne like a feather,A finger bidding silence,The dark and she together.Look, where the secret fount is misting.Apollo, thou shalt have thy trysting:For where a ruined sphinx lay smilingThe wood-girl waits thee, white, beguiling.All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail,Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale.
All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail,Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale.Below the Sabine mountainThe tossed and slender fountainWill curve, a lily pale;And where the plumed pine soars tallest,'Tis there, O nightingale, thou callest;Where the loud water leaps the highest.'Tis there, O nightingale, thou criest;In the dripping luscious dark,Hark, oh, hark!Wonderful, delirious,Soul of joy mysterious.
A garden full of fragrances,Of pauses and of cadences,Whence come they all?Of cypresses and ilex-trees,Plumes and dark candles like to theseWere long ago Persephone's.
All night within that gardenThe glimmering gods of stone,The satyrs and the naiadsWill laugh to be alone,In starless courts of shadowsBy silence overgrown,Save for the nightingale'sWild lyric thither blown.
By pools and dusky closesDim shapes will move about,Twirled wands and masks and faces,Dancers and wreaths of roses,The moonlight's trick, no doubt.A naked nymph upon the stair,A sculptured vine that clasps the air,—And then one Bacchic bird somewhereWill pour his passion out.All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail,Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale.
Down yonder velvet alley,Floats Daphne like a feather,A finger bidding silence,The dark and she together.Look, where the secret fount is misting.Apollo, thou shalt have thy trysting:For where a ruined sphinx lay smilingThe wood-girl waits thee, white, beguiling.All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail,Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale.
Florence Wilkinson Evans
The wind is Winter, though the sun be Spring:The icy rills have scarce begun to flow;The birds unconfidently fly and sing.As on the land once fell the northern foe,The hostile mountains from the passes flingTheir vandal blasts upon the lake below.Not yet the round clouds of the Maytime clingAbove the world's blue wonder's curving show,And tempt to linger with their lingering.Yet doth each slope a vernal promise know:See, mounting yonder, white as angel's wing.A snow of bloom to meet the bloom of snow.Love, need we more than our imaginingTo make the whole year May? What thoughThe wind be Winter if the heart be Spring?
The wind is Winter, though the sun be Spring:The icy rills have scarce begun to flow;The birds unconfidently fly and sing.
As on the land once fell the northern foe,The hostile mountains from the passes flingTheir vandal blasts upon the lake below.
Not yet the round clouds of the Maytime clingAbove the world's blue wonder's curving show,And tempt to linger with their lingering.
Yet doth each slope a vernal promise know:See, mounting yonder, white as angel's wing.A snow of bloom to meet the bloom of snow.
Love, need we more than our imaginingTo make the whole year May? What thoughThe wind be Winter if the heart be Spring?
Robert Underwood Johnson
I live in the heart of a gardenWith cypresses all about;To the east and west, and the south and north,Straight shadowy paths run out.There are ancient gods in my garden;They have faces young and pale;And a hundred thousand roses hereEnrapture the nightingale.Yet, among the gods of the garden,The roses and gods, I think,Daylong, of a far-off clover field,And the song of a bob-o-link.
I live in the heart of a gardenWith cypresses all about;To the east and west, and the south and north,Straight shadowy paths run out.
There are ancient gods in my garden;They have faces young and pale;And a hundred thousand roses hereEnrapture the nightingale.
Yet, among the gods of the garden,The roses and gods, I think,Daylong, of a far-off clover field,And the song of a bob-o-link.
Sophie Jewett
It is a place monastic, set aboveThe city's pride and pleasuring below;The benediction of the sky breathes loveOver the olive trees and vines a-row.The old gray walls are delicate to prayerAnd silence; in the corridors dim-litLurks many a painting, many a fresco rareDone by some brother for the joy of it.Pale lavender and red pomegranate trees,Roses and poppies spilling garden sweets;And tall lush grass and grain, and, circling these,The cool of cloistral walks and shadowed seats.By a sun-dial in the center, restsOne brown-robed Father; and his lips reciteSome holy word; little he heeds the jestsOf those who make the world their chief delight.While Florence, far below, from dreamy towersThrows back the sun and tolls the tranquil hours.
It is a place monastic, set aboveThe city's pride and pleasuring below;The benediction of the sky breathes loveOver the olive trees and vines a-row.
The old gray walls are delicate to prayerAnd silence; in the corridors dim-litLurks many a painting, many a fresco rareDone by some brother for the joy of it.
Pale lavender and red pomegranate trees,Roses and poppies spilling garden sweets;And tall lush grass and grain, and, circling these,The cool of cloistral walks and shadowed seats.
By a sun-dial in the center, restsOne brown-robed Father; and his lips reciteSome holy word; little he heeds the jestsOf those who make the world their chief delight.
While Florence, far below, from dreamy towersThrows back the sun and tolls the tranquil hours.
Richard Burton
There is a garden in a vineyard setBeneath the spell of Adriatic skies;A lovely place of dreams and ecstasies,Of color tangled in a verdant net,The shimmer of the low lagoon whose fretWashes the garden's length, and rose that viesWith rose, pomegranate and tall flowers that riseAbove their fellows in one glory met.And there I think in the still summer night,When all the world is sleeping save the moonAnd the blest nightingale who shuns the noon,The closed flowers open out of sheer delightAnd the white lilies bow their slender stalks,For thro' them, 'neath the vines Madonna walks.
There is a garden in a vineyard setBeneath the spell of Adriatic skies;A lovely place of dreams and ecstasies,Of color tangled in a verdant net,The shimmer of the low lagoon whose fretWashes the garden's length, and rose that viesWith rose, pomegranate and tall flowers that riseAbove their fellows in one glory met.And there I think in the still summer night,When all the world is sleeping save the moonAnd the blest nightingale who shuns the noon,The closed flowers open out of sheer delightAnd the white lilies bow their slender stalks,For thro' them, 'neath the vines Madonna walks.
Dorothy Frances Gurney
The city rumour rises all the dayAcross the potted plants along the wall;The sun and winds upon the slopes hold sway,Tossing the dust and shadows in a squall.The sun is old and weary—weary hereUpon the ageing roofs and miradors,The broken terraces and basins drearWhere each old bell its ancient echoes pours.Ringing—what memories to ring—to thoseThat linger here—the lizard and the cat,That haunt these solitudes in state moroseThrough the long day their silent habitat.Untroubled,—save when in the moonlight stealsSome voice in song across the lower wall,And sudden magic each old rafter feels,The while the echoes round it rise and fall.For as the wail of love or sorrow ringsAlong the night soft steps are on the stairAnd pathway; in the broken window wingsAre stirring, and white arms are lolling there.And that old rose tree lifts its head anew,And there is perfume o'er the hills afar,From where Alhambra's crescent cleaves the blueTo where agleam Genil and Darro are.O Voice!—what is thy necromantic wordThat all Granada waits adown the years?Is it the sound some love-swept night has heard?—The cry of love amid the cry of tears?—
The city rumour rises all the dayAcross the potted plants along the wall;The sun and winds upon the slopes hold sway,Tossing the dust and shadows in a squall.
The sun is old and weary—weary hereUpon the ageing roofs and miradors,The broken terraces and basins drearWhere each old bell its ancient echoes pours.
Ringing—what memories to ring—to thoseThat linger here—the lizard and the cat,That haunt these solitudes in state moroseThrough the long day their silent habitat.
Untroubled,—save when in the moonlight stealsSome voice in song across the lower wall,And sudden magic each old rafter feels,The while the echoes round it rise and fall.
For as the wail of love or sorrow ringsAlong the night soft steps are on the stairAnd pathway; in the broken window wingsAre stirring, and white arms are lolling there.
And that old rose tree lifts its head anew,And there is perfume o'er the hills afar,From where Alhambra's crescent cleaves the blueTo where agleam Genil and Darro are.
O Voice!—what is thy necromantic wordThat all Granada waits adown the years?Is it the sound some love-swept night has heard?—The cry of love amid the cry of tears?—