THE MAGNOLIA

Richard Le Gallienne

Deep in the wood, of scent and song the daughter,Perfect and bright is the magnolia born;White as a flake of foam upon still water,White as soft fleece upon rough brambles torn.Hers is a cup a workman might have fashionedOf Grecian marble in an age remote.Hers is a beauty perfect and impassioned,As when a woman bares her rounded throat.There is a tale of how the moon, her lover,Holds her enchanted by some magic spell;Something about a dove that broods above her,Or dies within her breast—I cannot tell.I cannot say where I have heard the story,Upon what poet's lips; but this I know:Her heart is like a pearl's, or like the gloryOf moonbeams frozen on the spotless snow.

Deep in the wood, of scent and song the daughter,Perfect and bright is the magnolia born;White as a flake of foam upon still water,White as soft fleece upon rough brambles torn.

Hers is a cup a workman might have fashionedOf Grecian marble in an age remote.Hers is a beauty perfect and impassioned,As when a woman bares her rounded throat.

There is a tale of how the moon, her lover,Holds her enchanted by some magic spell;Something about a dove that broods above her,Or dies within her breast—I cannot tell.

I cannot say where I have heard the story,Upon what poet's lips; but this I know:Her heart is like a pearl's, or like the gloryOf moonbeams frozen on the spotless snow.

José Santos Chocano(Translated by John Pierrepont Rice)

Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!).The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume,The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!)And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of skyThe cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.The Dorian nightingale is rare, and yet they say you'll hear him thereAt Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long hallooAnd golden-eyedtu-whit,tu-whooof owls that ogle London.For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heardAt Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are outYou'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorussing for London:—Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!).

The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume,The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!)And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of skyThe cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.

The Dorian nightingale is rare, and yet they say you'll hear him thereAt Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long hallooAnd golden-eyedtu-whit,tu-whooof owls that ogle London.

For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heardAt Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are outYou'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorussing for London:—

Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!).

Alfred Noyes

I wonder if the tides of SpringWill always bring me back againMute rapture at the simple thingOf lilacs blowing in the rain.If so, my heart will ever beAbove all fear, for I shall knowThere is a greater mysteryBeyond the time when lilacs blow.

I wonder if the tides of SpringWill always bring me back againMute rapture at the simple thingOf lilacs blowing in the rain.

If so, my heart will ever beAbove all fear, for I shall knowThere is a greater mysteryBeyond the time when lilacs blow.

Thomas S. Jones, Jr.

I knew that you were coming, June, I knew that you were coming!Among the alders by the stream I heard a partridge drumming;I heard a partridge drumming, June, a welcome with his wings,And felt a softness in the air half Summer's and half Spring's.I knew that you were nearing, June, I knew that you were nearing—I saw it in the bursting buds of roses in the clearing;The roses in the clearing, June, were blushing pink and red,For they had heard upon the hills the echo of your tread.I knew that you were coming, June, I knew that you were coming,For ev'ry warbler in the wood a song of joy was humming.I know that you are here, June, I know that you are here—The fairy month, the merry month, the laughter of the year!

I knew that you were nearing, June, I knew that you were nearing—I saw it in the bursting buds of roses in the clearing;The roses in the clearing, June, were blushing pink and red,For they had heard upon the hills the echo of your tread.

I knew that you were coming, June, I knew that you were coming,For ev'ry warbler in the wood a song of joy was humming.I know that you are here, June, I know that you are here—The fairy month, the merry month, the laughter of the year!

Douglas Malloch

Green! What a world of green! My startled soulPanting for beauty long denied,Leaps in a passion of high gratitudeTo meet the wild embraces of the wood;Rushes and flings itself upon the wholeMad miracle of green, with senses wide,Clings to the glory, hugs and holds it fast,As one who finds a long-lost love at last.Billows of green that break upon the sightIn bounteous crescendos of delight,Wind-hurried verdure hastening up the hillsTo where the sun its highest rapture spills;Cascades of color tumbling down the heightIn golden gushes of delicious light—God! Can I bear the beauty of this day,Or shall I be swept utterly away?Hush—here are deeps of green, where rapture stills,Sheathing itself in veils of amber dusk;Breathing a silence suffocating, sweet,Wherein a million hidden pulses beat.Look! How the very air takes fire and thrillsWith hint of heaven pushing through her husk.Ah, joy's not stopped! 'Tis only more intense,Here where Creation's ardors all condense;Here where I crush me to the radiant sod,Close-folded to the very nerves of God.See now—I hold my heart against this tree.The life that thrills its trembling leaves thrills me.There's not a pleasure pulsing through its veinsThat does not sting me with ecstatic pains.No twig or tracery, however fine,Can bear a tale of joy exceeding mine.Praised be the gods that made my spirit mad;Kept me aflame and raw to beauty's touch.Lashed me and scourged me with the whip of fate;Gave me so often agony for mate;Tore from my heart the things that make men glad—Praised be the gods! If I at last, by suchRelentless means may know the sacred bliss,The anguished rapture of an hour like this.Smite me, O Life, and bruise me if thou must;Mock me and starve me with thy bitter crust,But keep me thus aquiver and awake,Enamoured of my life for living's sake!This were the tragedy—that I should pass,Dull and indifferent through the glowing grass.And this the reason I was born, I say—That I might know the passion of this day!

Hush—here are deeps of green, where rapture stills,Sheathing itself in veils of amber dusk;Breathing a silence suffocating, sweet,Wherein a million hidden pulses beat.Look! How the very air takes fire and thrillsWith hint of heaven pushing through her husk.Ah, joy's not stopped! 'Tis only more intense,Here where Creation's ardors all condense;Here where I crush me to the radiant sod,Close-folded to the very nerves of God.See now—I hold my heart against this tree.The life that thrills its trembling leaves thrills me.There's not a pleasure pulsing through its veinsThat does not sting me with ecstatic pains.No twig or tracery, however fine,Can bear a tale of joy exceeding mine.

Praised be the gods that made my spirit mad;Kept me aflame and raw to beauty's touch.Lashed me and scourged me with the whip of fate;Gave me so often agony for mate;Tore from my heart the things that make men glad—Praised be the gods! If I at last, by suchRelentless means may know the sacred bliss,The anguished rapture of an hour like this.Smite me, O Life, and bruise me if thou must;Mock me and starve me with thy bitter crust,But keep me thus aquiver and awake,Enamoured of my life for living's sake!This were the tragedy—that I should pass,Dull and indifferent through the glowing grass.And this the reason I was born, I say—That I might know the passion of this day!

Angela Morgan

Late were we sleepingDeep in the mold,Clasping and keepingYesterday's gold—Hoardings of sunshine,Crimson and gold;Dreaming of light till our dream becameAureate bells and beakers of flame,—Splashed with the splendor of wine of flame.Raindrop awoke us;Zephyr bespoke us;Chick-a-dee called us,Bobolink called us,—Then we came.

Arthur Guiterman

Was it worth while to paint so fairThy every leaf—to vein with faultless artEach petal, taking the boon light and airOf summer so to heart?To bring thy beauty unto perfect flower,Then, like a passing fragrance or a smile,Vanish away, beyond recovery's power—Was it, frail bloom, worth while?Thy silence answers: "Life was mine!And I, who pass without regret or grief,Have cared the more to make my moment fine,Because it was so brief."In its first radiance I have seenThe sun!—why tarry then till comes the night?I go my way, content that I have beenPart of the morning light!"

Was it worth while to paint so fairThy every leaf—to vein with faultless artEach petal, taking the boon light and airOf summer so to heart?

To bring thy beauty unto perfect flower,Then, like a passing fragrance or a smile,Vanish away, beyond recovery's power—Was it, frail bloom, worth while?

Thy silence answers: "Life was mine!And I, who pass without regret or grief,Have cared the more to make my moment fine,Because it was so brief.

"In its first radiance I have seenThe sun!—why tarry then till comes the night?I go my way, content that I have beenPart of the morning light!"

Florence Earle Coates

Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall,But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all.Eet sure wonta beTeell flower an' treeAn' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall.You see, deesa 'Tonio always ees want'To leeve on a farm, so he buy wan las' mont'.I s'posa som' day eet be verra nice place,But shape dat he find eet een sure ees "deesgrace";Eet's busta so bad he must feexin' eet all,An' firs' theeng he starta for build ees da wall.Mysal' I go outa for see heem wan day,An' dere I am catcha heem sweatin' away;He's liftin' beeg stones from all parts of hees landAn' takin' dem up to da wall een hees hand!I say to heem: "Tony, why don'ta you gatSom' leetla wheel-barrow for halp you weeth dat?""O! com' an' I show you w'at's matter," he said,An' so we go look at hees tools een da shed.Dere's fina beeg wheel-barrow dere on da floor,But w'at do you s'pose? From een under da door,Som' mornin'-glor' vines have creep eento da shed,An' beautiful flower, all purpla an' red,Smile out from da vina so pretty an' greenDat tweest round da wheel an' da sides da machine.I look at dees Tony an' say to heem: "Wal?"An' Tony he look back at me an' say: "Hal!I no can bust up soocha beautiful theeng;I work weeth my han's eef eet tak' me teell spreeng!"Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall,But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all.Eet sure wonta beTeell flower an' treeAn' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall.

Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall,But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all.Eet sure wonta beTeell flower an' treeAn' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall.

You see, deesa 'Tonio always ees want'To leeve on a farm, so he buy wan las' mont'.I s'posa som' day eet be verra nice place,But shape dat he find eet een sure ees "deesgrace";Eet's busta so bad he must feexin' eet all,An' firs' theeng he starta for build ees da wall.Mysal' I go outa for see heem wan day,An' dere I am catcha heem sweatin' away;He's liftin' beeg stones from all parts of hees landAn' takin' dem up to da wall een hees hand!I say to heem: "Tony, why don'ta you gatSom' leetla wheel-barrow for halp you weeth dat?""O! com' an' I show you w'at's matter," he said,An' so we go look at hees tools een da shed.Dere's fina beeg wheel-barrow dere on da floor,But w'at do you s'pose? From een under da door,Som' mornin'-glor' vines have creep eento da shed,An' beautiful flower, all purpla an' red,Smile out from da vina so pretty an' greenDat tweest round da wheel an' da sides da machine.I look at dees Tony an' say to heem: "Wal?"An' Tony he look back at me an' say: "Hal!I no can bust up soocha beautiful theeng;I work weeth my han's eef eet tak' me teell spreeng!"

Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall,But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all.Eet sure wonta beTeell flower an' treeAn' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall.

T. A. Daly

Blue morning and the beloved,The hill-garden and I ...Blue morning and the beloved,Leaning, laughing and plucking,Plucking wet roses ...(She among the roses,I among the larkspur,Bob-white, warbler, meadowlark, bobolink,Song, sun,And still morning air.)I snipped off a larkspur blossom of china-blueAnd held it,A blossom against the sky ...And heaven opened outIn one small flower-face ...And the beloved,Plucking roses, plucking roses, old-fashioned roses,Lifted her faceWith eyes of china-blue.(She among the roses,I among the larkspur,Bee-hum, brown-mole, downy chick, humming-bird:Light, dew,And laughter of my love.)

Blue morning and the beloved,The hill-garden and I ...

Blue morning and the beloved,Leaning, laughing and plucking,Plucking wet roses ...

(She among the roses,I among the larkspur,Bob-white, warbler, meadowlark, bobolink,Song, sun,And still morning air.)

I snipped off a larkspur blossom of china-blueAnd held it,A blossom against the sky ...

And heaven opened outIn one small flower-face ...

And the beloved,Plucking roses, plucking roses, old-fashioned roses,Lifted her faceWith eyes of china-blue.

(She among the roses,I among the larkspur,Bee-hum, brown-mole, downy chick, humming-bird:Light, dew,And laughter of my love.)

James Oppenheim

It's July in my garden; and steel-blue are the globe thistlesAnd French grey the willows that bow to every breeze;And deep in every currant bush a robber blackbird whistles"I'm picking, I'm picking, I'm picking these!"So off I go to rout them, and find instead I'm gazingAt clusters of delphiniums—the seed was small and brown,But these are spurs that fell from heaven and caught the most amazingColours of the welkin's own as they came hustling down.And then some roses catch my eye, or may be some Sweet WilliamsOr pink and white and purple peals of Canterbury bellsOr pencilled Violas that peep between the three-leaved trilliumsOr red-hot pokers all aglow or poppies that cast spells—And while I stare at each in turn I quite forget or pardonThe blackbirds—and the blackguards—that keep robbing me of pie;For what do such things matter when I have so fair a gardenAnd what is half so lovely as my garden in July?

So off I go to rout them, and find instead I'm gazingAt clusters of delphiniums—the seed was small and brown,But these are spurs that fell from heaven and caught the most amazingColours of the welkin's own as they came hustling down.

And then some roses catch my eye, or may be some Sweet WilliamsOr pink and white and purple peals of Canterbury bellsOr pencilled Violas that peep between the three-leaved trilliumsOr red-hot pokers all aglow or poppies that cast spells—

And while I stare at each in turn I quite forget or pardonThe blackbirds—and the blackguards—that keep robbing me of pie;For what do such things matter when I have so fair a gardenAnd what is half so lovely as my garden in July?

Robert Ernest Vernède

Mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways;A golden peacock down the dusky alley strays;Gay flower petals strew—Pearl, emerald and blue—The curving slopes of fragrant summer grass;The pools are clear as glassBetween the white cups of the lily-flowers;The currants are like jewelled fairy-bowers;A dazzling insect worries the heart of a rose,Where a delicate fern a filmy shadow throws,And airy as bubbles the thousands of beesOver the young grape-clusters swarm as they please.The air is pearly, iridescent, pure;These profound and radiant noons mature,Unfolding even as odorous roses of clear light;Familiar roads to distances inviteLike slow and graceful gestures, one by oneBound for the pearly-hued horizon and the sun.Surely the summer clothes, with all her arts,No other garden with such grace and power;And 'tis the poignant joy close-folded in our heartsThat cries its life aloud from every flaming flower.

The air is pearly, iridescent, pure;These profound and radiant noons mature,Unfolding even as odorous roses of clear light;Familiar roads to distances inviteLike slow and graceful gestures, one by oneBound for the pearly-hued horizon and the sun.

Surely the summer clothes, with all her arts,No other garden with such grace and power;And 'tis the poignant joy close-folded in our heartsThat cries its life aloud from every flaming flower.

Emile Verhaeren

O perfect flowers of sweet midsummer days,The season's emblems ye,As nodding lazilyYe kiss to sleep each breeze that near you strays,And soothe the tired gazer's senseWith lulling surges of your softest somnolence.Like fairy lamps ye light the garden bedWith tender ruby glow.Not any flowers that blowCan match the glory of your gleaming red;Such sunny-warm and dreamy hueBefore ye lit your fires no garden ever knew.Bright are the blossoms of the scarlet sage,And bright the velvet vestOn the nasturtium's breast;Bright are the tulips when they reddest rage,And bright the coreopsis' eye;—But none of all can with your brilliant beauty vie.O soft and slumberous flowers, we love you well;Your glorious crimson tideThe mossy walk besideHolds all the garden in its drowsy spell;And walking there we gladly blessYour queenly grace and all your languorous loveliness.

Like fairy lamps ye light the garden bedWith tender ruby glow.Not any flowers that blowCan match the glory of your gleaming red;Such sunny-warm and dreamy hueBefore ye lit your fires no garden ever knew.

Bright are the blossoms of the scarlet sage,And bright the velvet vestOn the nasturtium's breast;Bright are the tulips when they reddest rage,And bright the coreopsis' eye;—But none of all can with your brilliant beauty vie.

O soft and slumberous flowers, we love you well;Your glorious crimson tideThe mossy walk besideHolds all the garden in its drowsy spell;And walking there we gladly blessYour queenly grace and all your languorous loveliness.

John Russell Hayes

From corn-crib by the level pasture-landsTo knoll where spruce and boulders hide the roadI know it like a book, and when my heartIs waste and dry and hard and choked with weeds,I come here till it gently blooms again.For gardens yield rich fruits that will outlastThe autumn and the winter of the soul,Richest to him who toils with loving hands.'Tis delving thus we learn life's secrets toldBut to those favored few who dig for them.The Garden is an intimate and keepsIn touch with us, yet hath its own high moods,And doth impose them on the mind of manTo shame his pettiness. So do I loveIts shimmering August mood keyed to the sun,A harlequin of color, birds and bloom.Nasturtiums, zinnias, balsams, salvias blazeBy vivid dahlias; tiger-lilies burnIn scarlet shadow of Jerusalem-cross;Beyond the queen-hydrangeas splendid ruleBarbaric marigolds; chrysanthemumsOutshine gladioli, and sunflowers flauntTheir crests of gold beneath the giant gourds.Within the arbor, script forgot, I muse,While gorgeous hollyhocks sway to and froTo mark the silences, and butterfliesFlit in and out like some bright memory,And blinding poppies kindle slow watch-firesBefore the golden altar of the sun.A spell lies on the Garden. Summer sitsWith finger on her lips as if she heardThe steps of Autumn echo on the hill.A hush lies on the Garden. Summer dreamsOf timid crocus thrust through drifted snow.

A spell lies on the Garden. Summer sitsWith finger on her lips as if she heardThe steps of Autumn echo on the hill.A hush lies on the Garden. Summer dreamsOf timid crocus thrust through drifted snow.

Gertrude Huntington McGiffert

Whence gets Earth her gold for thee,O Sunflower?Her woven, yellow locks so fineMust go to make that gold of thine.And whence thy red beside the stream,O Cardinal-flower?She pricks some vein lies near her heartThat thy rich, ruddy hue may start.And whence thy blue amid the corn,O Corn-flower?Her deep-blue eyes gleam out in glee,The glories of her work to see.

Whence gets Earth her gold for thee,O Sunflower?Her woven, yellow locks so fineMust go to make that gold of thine.

And whence thy red beside the stream,O Cardinal-flower?She pricks some vein lies near her heartThat thy rich, ruddy hue may start.

And whence thy blue amid the corn,O Corn-flower?Her deep-blue eyes gleam out in glee,The glories of her work to see.

Hannah Parker Kimball

My tall sunflowers love the sun,Love the burning August noonsWhen the locust tunes its viol,And the cricket croons.When the purple night draws on,With its planets hung on high,And the attared winds of slumberWander down the sky,Still my sunflowers love the sun,Keep their ward and watch and waitTill the rosy key of morningOpes the eastern gate.Then, when they have deeply quaffedFrom the brimming cups of dew,You can hear their golden laughterAll the garden through.

My tall sunflowers love the sun,Love the burning August noonsWhen the locust tunes its viol,And the cricket croons.

When the purple night draws on,With its planets hung on high,And the attared winds of slumberWander down the sky,

Still my sunflowers love the sun,Keep their ward and watch and waitTill the rosy key of morningOpes the eastern gate.

Then, when they have deeply quaffedFrom the brimming cups of dew,You can hear their golden laughterAll the garden through.

Clinton Scollard

When poppies in the garden bleed,And coreopsis goes to seed,And pansies, blossoming past their prime,Grow small and smaller all the time,When on the mown field, shrunk and dry,Brown dock and purple thistle lie,And smoke from forest fires at noonCan make the sun appear the moon,When apple seeds, all white before,Begin to darken in the core,I know that summer, scarcely here,Is gone until another year.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

When I go up through the mowing field,The headless aftermath,Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,Half closes the garden path.And when I come to the garden ground,The whir of sober birdsUp from the tangle of the withered weedsIs sadder than any words.A tree beside the wall stands bare,But a leaf that lingered brown,Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,Comes softly rustling down.I end not far from my going forthBy picking the faded blueOf the last remaining aster flowerTo carry again to you.

When I go up through the mowing field,The headless aftermath,Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground,The whir of sober birdsUp from the tangle of the withered weedsIs sadder than any words.

A tree beside the wall stands bare,But a leaf that lingered brown,Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,Comes softly rustling down.

I end not far from my going forthBy picking the faded blueOf the last remaining aster flowerTo carry again to you.

Robert Frost

The brown of fallen leaves,The duller brownOf withered mossStubble and bared sheaves,And pale light filtering downThe fields across.The gray of slender trees,The softer grayOf melting skies.What sobering ecstasiesOne drinks on such a dayWith chastened eyes!

The brown of fallen leaves,The duller brownOf withered mossStubble and bared sheaves,And pale light filtering downThe fields across.

The gray of slender trees,The softer grayOf melting skies.What sobering ecstasiesOne drinks on such a dayWith chastened eyes!

Charles Wharton Stork

I stand upon the broad and rounded summitOf a high hillIn the full golden flood of an October dayNearing to twilight.Below lie bouquets of woods, flat fields,White strings of roads winding like fairy tales into the distance,All steeped in sapphire mist like the blue bloom of grapes.Nearby a scarlet creeper trails a fence,Nearer a hawthorn treeDrops its wee crimson apples into the lush green grass.I stand with head thrown back,Seeing and breathing deep,My arms stretched out, in my two handsI hold a golden bowl.Luscious fruits fulfil the yellow lustre of its hollow sphere,Fruits like great gems,A pear of russet topaz, a ruby peach,A cluster of grapes—Amethysts from the dewy cave of night—A sapphire plum, a garnet apple, emerald nectarine,And on them lies a rose.Oh, empty golden bowl I call my soul,Filled now with the precious fruits of life and time,Topped with the rosy spray of grace,A rose,As though dropped to me from the sky above,A crowning thing,Love,I lift and hold you out,An offering,And close my eyes.

Oh, empty golden bowl I call my soul,Filled now with the precious fruits of life and time,Topped with the rosy spray of grace,A rose,As though dropped to me from the sky above,A crowning thing,Love,I lift and hold you out,An offering,And close my eyes.

Mary McMillan

A Ghostly visitant, pale Autumn Rose,Haunting my garden that you once loved well:Ah, how you queened it ere the sweet June's close,And blushed anew to hear the zephyrs tellYour loveliness was fairer than a dream!But now your pride of beauty is all gone,And like some poor sad penitent you seem,Whose drooping head but hides a visage wanAnd wasted by the coldness of the world.Upon your faint sweet breath is borne a sigh,Within your petals lies a tear impearled;I hear you to my garden say good-bye.A sudden wind—the pale rose-petals blowHither and yon—or are they flakes of snow?

A sudden wind—the pale rose-petals blowHither and yon—or are they flakes of snow?

Antoinette De Coursey Patterson

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,Ceaseless, insistent.The grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maplesThe wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence,Under the moon waning and worn and broken,Tired with summer.Let me remember you, voices of little insects,Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us,Snow-hushed and heartless.Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest,As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,Lest they forget them.

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,Ceaseless, insistent.

The grasshopper's horn, and far off, high in the maplesThe wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence,Under the moon waning and worn and broken,Tired with summer.

Let me remember you, voices of little insects,Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,Let me remember you, soon will the winter be on us,Snow-hushed and heartless.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest,As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,Lest they forget them.

Sara Teasdale

Apple-green west and an orange bar,And the crystal eye of a lone, one star ...And, "Child, take the shears and cut what you will.Frost to-night—so clear and dead-still."Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud,And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd,The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied,—The dahlias that reign by the garden-side.The dahlias I might not touch till to-night!A gleam of the shears in the fading light,And I gathered them all,—the splendid throng,And in one great sheaf I bore them along.In my garden of Life with its all-late flowersI heed a Voice in the shrinking hours:"Frost to-night—so clear and dead-still ..."Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill.

Apple-green west and an orange bar,And the crystal eye of a lone, one star ...And, "Child, take the shears and cut what you will.Frost to-night—so clear and dead-still."

Then, I sally forth, half sad, half proud,And I come to the velvet, imperial crowd,The wine-red, the gold, the crimson, the pied,—The dahlias that reign by the garden-side.

The dahlias I might not touch till to-night!A gleam of the shears in the fading light,And I gathered them all,—the splendid throng,And in one great sheaf I bore them along.

In my garden of Life with its all-late flowersI heed a Voice in the shrinking hours:"Frost to-night—so clear and dead-still ..."Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill.

Edith M. Thomas

Listen ...With faint dry sound,Like steps of passing ghosts,The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the treesAnd fall.

Adelaide Crapsey

Like an empty stageThe gardens are empty and cold;The marble terraces riseLike vases that hold no flowers;The lake is frozen, the fountain still;The marble walls and the seatsAre useless and beautiful.Ah, hereWhere the wind and the dusk and the snow areAll is silent and white and sad!Why do I think of you?Why does your name remorselesslyStrike through my heart?Why does my soul awaken and shudder?Why do I seem to hearCries as lovely as music?Surely you never cameInto these pale snow-gardens;Surely you never stoodHere in the twilight with me;Yet here I have lingered and dreamedOf a face as subtle as music,Of golden hair, and of eyesLike a child's ...I have felt on my browYour finger-tips, plaintive as music ...O Wonder of all wonders, O Love—Wrought of sweet sounds and of dreaming!—Why do you not emergeFrom the lilac pale petals of dusk,And come to me here in the gardensWhere the wind and the snow are?Beauty and Peace are here—And unceasing music—And a loneliness chill and wistful,Like the feeling of death.Like a crystal lily a starLeans from its leaves of silverAnd gleams in the sky;And golden and faint in the shadowsYou wait indistinctly,—Like a phantom lamp that appearsIn the mirror of distance that hoversBy the window at twilight—You have come—and we stand together,With questioning eyes—Dreaming and cold and ghostlyIn an empty garden that seemsLike an empty stage.

Beauty and Peace are here—And unceasing music—And a loneliness chill and wistful,Like the feeling of death.

Like a crystal lily a starLeans from its leaves of silverAnd gleams in the sky;And golden and faint in the shadowsYou wait indistinctly,—Like a phantom lamp that appearsIn the mirror of distance that hoversBy the window at twilight—You have come—and we stand together,With questioning eyes—Dreaming and cold and ghostlyIn an empty garden that seemsLike an empty stage.

Zoë Akins

Speak not of snow and cold and rimeNow they prevail.Would you have joy in winter-time,Think of the paleNew green that comes, of blossoming lilacs think,Larkspur, and borders of the fringèd pink.And sing, if winter grants you heart to sing,Of summer and of spring.Would you secure some happinessIn frosty hours,Trust to the eye external lessThan to the powersOf inward sight that even now may showOpaline seas, blue hilltops, and the glowOf daybreak on the glades where thrushes singIn summer and in spring.Gaze not on fettered lake and brookAnd sullen skies,But in your happy memory lookWhere beauty liesAs once it was, as it shall be againWhen sunshine floods the fields of blowing grain,And sing, as must who would in winter sing,Of summer and of spring.

Would you secure some happinessIn frosty hours,Trust to the eye external lessThan to the powersOf inward sight that even now may showOpaline seas, blue hilltops, and the glowOf daybreak on the glades where thrushes singIn summer and in spring.

Gaze not on fettered lake and brookAnd sullen skies,But in your happy memory lookWhere beauty liesAs once it was, as it shall be againWhen sunshine floods the fields of blowing grain,And sing, as must who would in winter sing,Of summer and of spring.

Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer

I meant to do my work to-day—But a brown bird sang in the apple-treeAnd a butterfly flitted across the field,And all the leaves were calling me.And the wind went sighing over the land,Tossing the grasses to and fro,And a rainbow held out its shining hand—So what could I do but laugh and go?

I meant to do my work to-day—But a brown bird sang in the apple-treeAnd a butterfly flitted across the field,And all the leaves were calling me.

And the wind went sighing over the land,Tossing the grasses to and fro,And a rainbow held out its shining hand—So what could I do but laugh and go?

Richard Le Gallienne

Through tree-top and clover a-whirr and away!Hi! little rover, stop and stay.Merry, absurd, excited wag—Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag!Wild and free as the wild thrush, and warier—Was ever a bee merrier, airier?Wings folded so, a second or two—Was ever a crow more solemn than you?A-whirr again over the garden, away!Who calls, little rover, Bird or fay?Agleam and aglow, incarnate bliss!What do you know that we humans miss?In the lily's chalice, what rune, what spell,In the rose's palace, what do they tell(When the door you bob in, airily)That they hush from the robin, hide from the bee?—Fearing the crew of chatter and song,And tell to you of the chantless tongue?Chantless! Ah, yes. Is that the stingMasked in gay dress and whirring wing?Faith! But a wing of such airy stuff!What need to sing? Here's music enough.A-whirr, and over tree-top, and through!Hi! little rover, fair travel to you.Sweet, absurd, excited wag—Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag!

Through tree-top and clover a-whirr and away!Hi! little rover, stop and stay.

Merry, absurd, excited wag—Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag!

Wild and free as the wild thrush, and warier—Was ever a bee merrier, airier?

Wings folded so, a second or two—Was ever a crow more solemn than you?

A-whirr again over the garden, away!Who calls, little rover, Bird or fay?

Agleam and aglow, incarnate bliss!What do you know that we humans miss?

In the lily's chalice, what rune, what spell,In the rose's palace, what do they tell

(When the door you bob in, airily)That they hush from the robin, hide from the bee?—

Fearing the crew of chatter and song,And tell to you of the chantless tongue?

Chantless! Ah, yes. Is that the stingMasked in gay dress and whirring wing?

Faith! But a wing of such airy stuff!What need to sing? Here's music enough.

A-whirr, and over tree-top, and through!Hi! little rover, fair travel to you.

Sweet, absurd, excited wag—Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag!

Hermann Hagedorn

Softly at dawn a whisper stoleDown from the Green House on the Hill,Enchanting many a ghostly boleAnd wood song with the ancient thrill.Gossiping on the countryside,Spring and the wandering breezes sayGod has thrown heaven open wideAnd let the thrushes out to-day.

Softly at dawn a whisper stoleDown from the Green House on the Hill,Enchanting many a ghostly boleAnd wood song with the ancient thrill.

Gossiping on the countryside,Spring and the wandering breezes sayGod has thrown heaven open wideAnd let the thrushes out to-day.

Back to Index Next