Duncan Campbell Scott
Love, it is the time of roses!In bright fields and garden-closesHow they burgeon and unfold!How they sweep o'er tombs and towersIn voluptuous crimson showersAnd untrammelled tides of gold!How they lure wild bees to captureAll the rich mellifluous raptureOf their magical perfume,And to passing winds surrenderAnd their frail and dazzling splendorRivalling your turban-plume!How they cleave the air adorningThe high rivers of the morningIn a blithe, bejewelled fleet!How they deck the moonlit grassesIn thick rainbow tinted massesLike a fair queen's bridal sheet!Hide me in a shrine of roses,Drown me in a wine of rosesDrawn from every fragrant grove!Bind me on a pyre of roses,Burn me in a fire of roses,Crown me with the rose of Love!
Love, it is the time of roses!In bright fields and garden-closesHow they burgeon and unfold!How they sweep o'er tombs and towersIn voluptuous crimson showersAnd untrammelled tides of gold!
How they lure wild bees to captureAll the rich mellifluous raptureOf their magical perfume,And to passing winds surrenderAnd their frail and dazzling splendorRivalling your turban-plume!
How they cleave the air adorningThe high rivers of the morningIn a blithe, bejewelled fleet!How they deck the moonlit grassesIn thick rainbow tinted massesLike a fair queen's bridal sheet!
Hide me in a shrine of roses,Drown me in a wine of rosesDrawn from every fragrant grove!Bind me on a pyre of roses,Burn me in a fire of roses,Crown me with the rose of Love!
Sarojini Naidu
Love planted a rose,And the world turned sweet.Where the wheat-field blowsLove planted a rose.Up the mill-wheel's proseRan a music-beat.Love planted a rose,And the world turned sweet.
Love planted a rose,And the world turned sweet.Where the wheat-field blowsLove planted a rose.Up the mill-wheel's proseRan a music-beat.Love planted a rose,And the world turned sweet.
Katharine Lee Bates
My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own,Into thy garden; thine be happy hoursAmong my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers,From root to crowning petal thine alone.Thine is the place from where the seeds are sownUp to the sky enclosed, with all its showers.But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowersTo keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown.For as these come and go, and quit our pineTo follow the sweet season, or, new-comers,Sing one song only from our alder-trees,My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine,Fit to the silent world and other summers,With wings that dip beyond the silver seas.
My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own,Into thy garden; thine be happy hoursAmong my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers,From root to crowning petal thine alone.
Thine is the place from where the seeds are sownUp to the sky enclosed, with all its showers.But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowersTo keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown.
For as these come and go, and quit our pineTo follow the sweet season, or, new-comers,Sing one song only from our alder-trees,
My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine,Fit to the silent world and other summers,With wings that dip beyond the silver seas.
Alice Meynell
I saw the giant stalking to the sky,The giant cloud above the wilderness,Bearing a mystery too far, too high,For my poor guess.Away I turned me, sighing: "I must seekIn lowlier places for the wonder-word.Something more little, intimate, shall speak."A bright rose stirred.And long I looked into its face, to seeAt last some hidden import of the hour.And I had thought to turn from mystery—But O, flower! flower!
I saw the giant stalking to the sky,The giant cloud above the wilderness,Bearing a mystery too far, too high,For my poor guess.Away I turned me, sighing: "I must seekIn lowlier places for the wonder-word.Something more little, intimate, shall speak."A bright rose stirred.And long I looked into its face, to seeAt last some hidden import of the hour.
And I had thought to turn from mystery—But O, flower! flower!
Agnes Lee
There seems no difference betweenTo-day and yesterday—The forest glimmers just as green,The garden's just as gay.Yet, something came and something wentWithin the night's chill gloom:An old rose fell, her fragrance spent,A new rose burst in bloom.
There seems no difference betweenTo-day and yesterday—The forest glimmers just as green,The garden's just as gay.
Yet, something came and something wentWithin the night's chill gloom:An old rose fell, her fragrance spent,A new rose burst in bloom.
Charlotte Becker
But we did walk in Eden,Eden, the garden of God;—There, where no beckoning wonderOf all the paths we trod,No choiring sun-filled vineyard,No voice of stream or bird,But was some radiant oracleAnd flaming with the Word!Mine ears are dim with voices;Mine eyes yet strive to seeThe black things here to wonder at,The mirth,—the misery.Beloved, who wert with me there,How came these shames to be?—On what lost star are we?Men say: The paths of gladnessBy men were never trod!—But we have walked in Eden,Eden, the garden of God.
But we did walk in Eden,Eden, the garden of God;—There, where no beckoning wonderOf all the paths we trod,No choiring sun-filled vineyard,No voice of stream or bird,But was some radiant oracleAnd flaming with the Word!
Mine ears are dim with voices;Mine eyes yet strive to seeThe black things here to wonder at,The mirth,—the misery.Beloved, who wert with me there,How came these shames to be?—On what lost star are we?
Men say: The paths of gladnessBy men were never trod!—But we have walked in Eden,Eden, the garden of God.
Josephine Preston Peabody
Among the flowers of summer-time she stood,And underneath the films and blossoms shoneHer face, like some pomegranate strangely grownTo ripe magnificence in solitude;The wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewedHer shoulders with her shining hair out blown,And dyed her breast with many a changing toneOf silvery green, and all the hues that broodAmong the flowers;She raised her arm up for her dove to knowThat he might preen him on her lovely head;Then I, unseen, and rising on tiptoe,Bowed over the rose-barriers, and lo!Touched not her arm, but kissed her lips instead,Among the flowers!
Among the flowers of summer-time she stood,And underneath the films and blossoms shoneHer face, like some pomegranate strangely grownTo ripe magnificence in solitude;The wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewedHer shoulders with her shining hair out blown,And dyed her breast with many a changing toneOf silvery green, and all the hues that broodAmong the flowers;She raised her arm up for her dove to knowThat he might preen him on her lovely head;Then I, unseen, and rising on tiptoe,Bowed over the rose-barriers, and lo!Touched not her arm, but kissed her lips instead,Among the flowers!
Edmund Gosse
How many flowers are gently metWithin my garden fair!The daffodil, the violet,And lilies dear are there.They fade and pass, the fleeting flowers,And brief their little light;They hold not Love's diviner hours,Nor Sower's human night.Tho' one by one their bloom depart,No change thy lover knows,For mine the fragrance of thy heart,O thou my perfect rose!
How many flowers are gently metWithin my garden fair!The daffodil, the violet,And lilies dear are there.
They fade and pass, the fleeting flowers,And brief their little light;They hold not Love's diviner hours,Nor Sower's human night.
Tho' one by one their bloom depart,No change thy lover knows,For mine the fragrance of thy heart,O thou my perfect rose!
George Sterling
Brunhilde, with the young Norn soulThat has no peace, and grim as thoseThat spun the thread of life, give heed:Peace is concealed in every rose.And in these petals peace I bring:A jewel clearer than the dew:A perfume subtler than the breathOf Spring with which it circles you.Peace I have found, asleep, awake,By many paths, on many a strand.Peace overspreads the sky with stars.Peace is concealed within your hand.And when at night I clasp it thereI wonder how you never knowThe strength you shed from finger-tips:The treasure that consoles me so.Begin the art of finding peace,Beloved:—it is art, no less.Sometimes we find it hid beneathThe orchards in their springtime dress:Sometimes one finds it in oak woods,Sometimes in dazzling mountain-snows;In books, sometimes. But pray beginBy finding it within a rose.
Brunhilde, with the young Norn soulThat has no peace, and grim as thoseThat spun the thread of life, give heed:Peace is concealed in every rose.And in these petals peace I bring:A jewel clearer than the dew:A perfume subtler than the breathOf Spring with which it circles you.
Peace I have found, asleep, awake,By many paths, on many a strand.Peace overspreads the sky with stars.Peace is concealed within your hand.And when at night I clasp it thereI wonder how you never knowThe strength you shed from finger-tips:The treasure that consoles me so.
Begin the art of finding peace,Beloved:—it is art, no less.Sometimes we find it hid beneathThe orchards in their springtime dress:Sometimes one finds it in oak woods,Sometimes in dazzling mountain-snows;In books, sometimes. But pray beginBy finding it within a rose.
Vachel Lindsay
My soul is like a garden-closeWhere marjoram and lilac grow,Where soft the scent of long agoOver the border lightly blows.Where sometimes homing winds at playBear the faint fragrance of a rose—My soul is like a garden-closeBecause you chanced to pass my way.
My soul is like a garden-closeWhere marjoram and lilac grow,Where soft the scent of long agoOver the border lightly blows.
Where sometimes homing winds at playBear the faint fragrance of a rose—My soul is like a garden-closeBecause you chanced to pass my way.
Thomas S. Jones, Jr.
I dreamed a dream of roses somewhere breathingTheir sweet souls out upon the summer night:The flowers I saw not, but their fragrance wreathingLike clouds of incense filled me with delight.And then as if for my still further pleasureThere came a flood of sweetest melody,—But whence I knew not flowed the wondrous measure,For neither flute nor viol could I see.Then in the vision love sublime, immortal,Encircled all my soul with its pure stream;And though I saw thee not through dreamland's portal,I knew thou only hadst inspired the dream.'Tis thus thine influence itself discloses,In dreams of love, of music, and of roses!
I dreamed a dream of roses somewhere breathingTheir sweet souls out upon the summer night:The flowers I saw not, but their fragrance wreathingLike clouds of incense filled me with delight.And then as if for my still further pleasureThere came a flood of sweetest melody,—But whence I knew not flowed the wondrous measure,For neither flute nor viol could I see.Then in the vision love sublime, immortal,Encircled all my soul with its pure stream;And though I saw thee not through dreamland's portal,I knew thou only hadst inspired the dream.'Tis thus thine influence itself discloses,In dreams of love, of music, and of roses!
Antoinette De Coursey Patterson
The rose-tree wears a diadem,Both bud and bloom of gold and fire,Too high upon the slender stemFor baby hands that reach for them:AndRoses!my brown Elsa cries:Her chubby arms in vain aspire.But rose-leaf Hilda smiles and sighsAnd worships them with patient eyes.I gathered them a rose or two,But not the shy one hanging higherThat brushed my lips with honey-dew!Thatis the rose I send to you.
The rose-tree wears a diadem,Both bud and bloom of gold and fire,Too high upon the slender stemFor baby hands that reach for them:
AndRoses!my brown Elsa cries:Her chubby arms in vain aspire.But rose-leaf Hilda smiles and sighsAnd worships them with patient eyes.
I gathered them a rose or two,But not the shy one hanging higherThat brushed my lips with honey-dew!Thatis the rose I send to you.
Grace Hazard Conkling
Would that I might become you,Losing myself, my sweet!—So longs the dust that liesAbout the rose's feet.So longs the last, dim starHung on the verge of night;—She moves—she melts—she slips—She trembles into the light.
Would that I might become you,Losing myself, my sweet!—So longs the dust that liesAbout the rose's feet.
So longs the last, dim starHung on the verge of night;—She moves—she melts—she slips—She trembles into the light.
John Hall Wheelock
I sat one day within a garden fairPining for thee and sad because alone,Wishing some fate could send thee to me there.All things appeared to share my saddened mood,Each flower drooped, the sun was hid from view,The very birds in silence seemed to brood.Then, as I day-dreamed with my eyes half closed,Sudden the birds began to sing again,The flow'rs, uplifting heads, no longer dozed.Thinking the sun had come once more for meAnd for all nature, to effect such change,I turned and lo! saw not the sun but thee.
I sat one day within a garden fairPining for thee and sad because alone,Wishing some fate could send thee to me there.
All things appeared to share my saddened mood,Each flower drooped, the sun was hid from view,The very birds in silence seemed to brood.
Then, as I day-dreamed with my eyes half closed,Sudden the birds began to sing again,The flow'rs, uplifting heads, no longer dozed.
Thinking the sun had come once more for meAnd for all nature, to effect such change,I turned and lo! saw not the sun but thee.
Livingston L. Biddle
Oh, the beauty of the world is in this garden,I hear it stir on every hand.See how the flowers keep still because of it!hear how it trembles in the blackbird's song!There is a secret in it, a blessed mystery.I fain would weep to feel it near me, my eyesgrow dim before these unseen wings.And the secret is in other places, it is in songsand music and all lovers' hearts.Hush now, and walk on tiptoe, for these are fairy things.
Oh, the beauty of the world is in this garden,I hear it stir on every hand.See how the flowers keep still because of it!hear how it trembles in the blackbird's song!There is a secret in it, a blessed mystery.I fain would weep to feel it near me, my eyesgrow dim before these unseen wings.And the secret is in other places, it is in songsand music and all lovers' hearts.Hush now, and walk on tiptoe, for these are fairy things.
Elizabeth Kirby
Belinda in her dimity,Whereon are wrought pink roses,Trips through the boxwood paths to me,A-down the garden-closes,As though a hundred roses came,('Twas so I thought) to meet me,As though one rosebud said my nameAnd bent its head to greet me.Belinda, in your rose-wrought dressYou seemed the garden's growing;The tilt and toss o' you, no lessThan wind-swayed posy blowing.'Twas so I watched in sweet dismay,Lest in that happy hour,Sudden you'd stop and thrill and swayAnd turn into a flower.
Belinda in her dimity,Whereon are wrought pink roses,Trips through the boxwood paths to me,A-down the garden-closes,As though a hundred roses came,('Twas so I thought) to meet me,As though one rosebud said my nameAnd bent its head to greet me.
Belinda, in your rose-wrought dressYou seemed the garden's growing;The tilt and toss o' you, no lessThan wind-swayed posy blowing.'Twas so I watched in sweet dismay,Lest in that happy hour,Sudden you'd stop and thrill and swayAnd turn into a flower.
Theodosia Garrison
De roses lean ter love her an' des won't leave de place;De climbin' mawnin'-glories sweet-smilin' in her face;De twinklin' pathway know her an' seem ter pass de word,An' de South Win' singin' ter her ter match de mockin'-bird.She sweetheart ter de Springtime,W'en de dreamy roses stir,An' Winter shine lak' SummerAn' wear a rose fer her."Sweetheart!" sing de Medder, w'en lak' de light she pass;De River take de tune up: "Make me yo' lookin'-glass!"But des who her true lover she never let 'em know;De Win' is sich a tell-tale, an' de River run on so!But Springtime come a-courtin'An' let de blossoms fall,An' Summer say: "I loves you!"She sweetheart ter 'em ALL!
De roses lean ter love her an' des won't leave de place;De climbin' mawnin'-glories sweet-smilin' in her face;De twinklin' pathway know her an' seem ter pass de word,An' de South Win' singin' ter her ter match de mockin'-bird.
She sweetheart ter de Springtime,W'en de dreamy roses stir,An' Winter shine lak' SummerAn' wear a rose fer her.
"Sweetheart!" sing de Medder, w'en lak' de light she pass;De River take de tune up: "Make me yo' lookin'-glass!"But des who her true lover she never let 'em know;De Win' is sich a tell-tale, an' de River run on so!
But Springtime come a-courtin'An' let de blossoms fall,An' Summer say: "I loves you!"She sweetheart ter 'em ALL!
Frank L. Stanton
I have a garden filled with many flowers:The mignonette, the sweet-pea, and the rose,Daisies, and daffodils, whose color glowsThe fairer for the verdure which embowersTheir beauty, and sets forth their hidden powersTo charm my heart, whenever at the closeOf day's dull hurry I would seek reposeIn my still garden through the darkening hours.Thus, Lady, do I keep a place apart,Wherein my love for you cloistered shall be,Far from the rattle of the city cart,Even as my garden, where daily I may seeThe flowers of your love, and none from meMay win the hidden secret of my heart.
I have a garden filled with many flowers:The mignonette, the sweet-pea, and the rose,Daisies, and daffodils, whose color glowsThe fairer for the verdure which embowersTheir beauty, and sets forth their hidden powersTo charm my heart, whenever at the closeOf day's dull hurry I would seek reposeIn my still garden through the darkening hours.
Thus, Lady, do I keep a place apart,Wherein my love for you cloistered shall be,Far from the rattle of the city cart,Even as my garden, where daily I may seeThe flowers of your love, and none from meMay win the hidden secret of my heart.
Norreys Jephson O'Conor
Do thou, my rose, inclineThy heart to mine.If love be realAh, whisper, whisper lowThat I at last may know.Quick! breathe it now!A sigh,—a tear,—a vow:Oh, any lightest thingIts cadences to singThat loved am I, and not,Ah, not forgot!
Do thou, my rose, inclineThy heart to mine.If love be realAh, whisper, whisper lowThat I at last may know.Quick! breathe it now!A sigh,—a tear,—a vow:Oh, any lightest thingIts cadences to singThat loved am I, and not,Ah, not forgot!
Frederic A. Whiting
The sweet caresses that I gave to youAre but the perfume of the Rose of Love,The color and the witchery thereof,And not the Rose itself. Each is a clueMerely, whereby to seek the hidden, true,Substantial blossom. Like the Jordan doveA kiss is but a symbol from above—An emblem the Reality shines through.The Rose of Love is ever unrevealedIn all its beauty, for the sight of itWere perilous with purpose of the world.The hand of Life has cautiously concealedThe pollen-chamber of the infiniteFlower, and its petals only half uncurled.
The sweet caresses that I gave to youAre but the perfume of the Rose of Love,The color and the witchery thereof,And not the Rose itself. Each is a clueMerely, whereby to seek the hidden, true,Substantial blossom. Like the Jordan doveA kiss is but a symbol from above—An emblem the Reality shines through.
The Rose of Love is ever unrevealedIn all its beauty, for the sight of itWere perilous with purpose of the world.The hand of Life has cautiously concealedThe pollen-chamber of the infiniteFlower, and its petals only half uncurled.
Elsa Barker
Will the garden never forgetThat it whispers over and over,"Where is your lover, Nanette?Where is your lover—your lover?"Oh, roses I helped to grow,Oh, lily and mignonette,Must you always question me so,"Where is your lover, Nanette?"Since you looked on my joy one day,Is my grief then a lesser thing?Have you only this to sayWhen I pray you for comforting?Now that I walk aloneHere where our hands were met,Must you whisper me everyone,"Where is your lover, Nanette?"I have mourned with you year and year,When the Autumn has left you bare,And now that my heart is sereDoes not one of your roses care?Oh, help me forget—forget,Nor question over and over,"Where is your lover, Nanette?Where is your lover—your lover?"
Will the garden never forgetThat it whispers over and over,"Where is your lover, Nanette?Where is your lover—your lover?"Oh, roses I helped to grow,Oh, lily and mignonette,Must you always question me so,"Where is your lover, Nanette?"Since you looked on my joy one day,Is my grief then a lesser thing?Have you only this to sayWhen I pray you for comforting?
Now that I walk aloneHere where our hands were met,Must you whisper me everyone,"Where is your lover, Nanette?"
I have mourned with you year and year,When the Autumn has left you bare,And now that my heart is sereDoes not one of your roses care?Oh, help me forget—forget,Nor question over and over,"Where is your lover, Nanette?Where is your lover—your lover?"
Theodosia Garrison
It was June in the garden,It was our time, our day;And our gaze with love on everythingDid fall;They seemed then softly opening,And they saw and loved us both,The roses all.The sky was purer than all limpid thought;Insect and birdSwept through the golden texture of the air,Unheard;Our kisses were so fair they broughtExaltation to both light and bird.It seemed as though a happiness at onceHad skied itself and wished the heavens entireFor its resplendent fire;And life, all pulsing life, had entered in,Into the fissures of our beings to the core,To fling them higher.And there was nothing but invocatory cries,Mad impulses, prayers and vows that cleaveThe archèd skies,And sudden yearning to create new gods,In order to believe.
It was June in the garden,It was our time, our day;And our gaze with love on everythingDid fall;They seemed then softly opening,And they saw and loved us both,The roses all.
The sky was purer than all limpid thought;Insect and birdSwept through the golden texture of the air,Unheard;Our kisses were so fair they broughtExaltation to both light and bird.It seemed as though a happiness at onceHad skied itself and wished the heavens entireFor its resplendent fire;And life, all pulsing life, had entered in,Into the fissures of our beings to the core,To fling them higher.
And there was nothing but invocatory cries,Mad impulses, prayers and vows that cleaveThe archèd skies,And sudden yearning to create new gods,In order to believe.
Emile Verhaeren
A fair white rose sedately growsWithin the garden wall. There blowsNo wind to ruff her petals white,No stain of earth, no touch of blightThe pure face of my ladye shows.The queen of all the walls encloseMight be mine own, an' if I chose;But yet, but yet I cannot slightMy wild red rose.Outside the garden wall she throwsHer clinging tendrils, and she knowsHow strong the winds of passion smite;She's fragrant, though not faultless quite;Just as she is, none shall deposeMy wild red rose.
A fair white rose sedately growsWithin the garden wall. There blowsNo wind to ruff her petals white,No stain of earth, no touch of blightThe pure face of my ladye shows.The queen of all the walls encloseMight be mine own, an' if I chose;But yet, but yet I cannot slightMy wild red rose.
Outside the garden wall she throwsHer clinging tendrils, and she knowsHow strong the winds of passion smite;She's fragrant, though not faultless quite;Just as she is, none shall deposeMy wild red rose.
William Lindsey
Red roses floating in a crystal bowlYou bring, O love; and in your eyes I see,Blossom on blossom, your warm love of meBurning within the crystal of your soul—Red roses floating in a crystal bowl.
Red roses floating in a crystal bowlYou bring, O love; and in your eyes I see,Blossom on blossom, your warm love of meBurning within the crystal of your soul—Red roses floating in a crystal bowl.
Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
This friendly garden, with its fragrant roses,—It was not ours, when she was here below;And so, in that low bed where she reposes,The beauty of it all she cannot know.But in the evening when the birds are callingThe fragrance rises like a breath of myrrh,And in my empty heart, benignly falling,Becomes a little prayer to send to her.So, in that silent, lonely bed that holds her,Where nevermore the shadows rise or flee,I think a dream of radiant spring enfolds her—Of bloom and bird and bending bough ... and me.
This friendly garden, with its fragrant roses,—It was not ours, when she was here below;And so, in that low bed where she reposes,The beauty of it all she cannot know.
But in the evening when the birds are callingThe fragrance rises like a breath of myrrh,And in my empty heart, benignly falling,Becomes a little prayer to send to her.
So, in that silent, lonely bed that holds her,Where nevermore the shadows rise or flee,I think a dream of radiant spring enfolds her—Of bloom and bird and bending bough ... and me.
Louis Dodge
As long as the stars of GodHang steadfast in the sky,And the blossoms 'neath the sodAwake when Spring is nigh;As long as the nightingaleSings love-songs to the rose,And the Winter wind in the valeMakes moan o'er the virgin snows—As long as these things beI would tell my love for thee!As long as the rose of JuneBursts forth in crimson fire,And the mellow harvest-moonShines over hill and spire;As long as heaven's dewAt morning kisses the sod;As long as you are you,And I know that God is God—As long as these things beI would tell my love for thee!
As long as the stars of GodHang steadfast in the sky,And the blossoms 'neath the sodAwake when Spring is nigh;As long as the nightingaleSings love-songs to the rose,And the Winter wind in the valeMakes moan o'er the virgin snows—As long as these things beI would tell my love for thee!
As long as the rose of JuneBursts forth in crimson fire,And the mellow harvest-moonShines over hill and spire;As long as heaven's dewAt morning kisses the sod;As long as you are you,And I know that God is God—As long as these things beI would tell my love for thee!
Charles Hanson Towne
King Solomon walked a thousand timesForth of his garden-close;And saw there spring no goodlier thing,Be sure, than the same little rose.Under the sun was nothing new,Or now, I well suppose.But what new thing could you find to singMore rare than the same little rose?Nothing is new; save I, save you,And every new heart that grows,On the same Earth met, that nurtures yetBreath of the same little rose.
King Solomon walked a thousand timesForth of his garden-close;And saw there spring no goodlier thing,Be sure, than the same little rose.
Under the sun was nothing new,Or now, I well suppose.But what new thing could you find to singMore rare than the same little rose?
Nothing is new; save I, save you,And every new heart that grows,On the same Earth met, that nurtures yetBreath of the same little rose.
Josephine Preston Peabody
When one has heard the message of the Rose,For what faint other calling shall he care?Dark broodings turn to find their lonely lair;The vain world keeps her posturing and pose.He, with his crimson secret, which bestowsHeaven in his heart, to Heaven lifts his prayer,And knows all glory trembling through the airAs on triumphal journeying he goes.So through green woodlands in the twilight dim,Led by the faint, pale argent of a star,What though to others it is weary night,Nature holds out her wide, sweet heart to him;And, leaning o'er the world's mysterious bar,His soul is great with everlasting light.
When one has heard the message of the Rose,For what faint other calling shall he care?Dark broodings turn to find their lonely lair;The vain world keeps her posturing and pose.He, with his crimson secret, which bestowsHeaven in his heart, to Heaven lifts his prayer,And knows all glory trembling through the airAs on triumphal journeying he goes.
So through green woodlands in the twilight dim,Led by the faint, pale argent of a star,What though to others it is weary night,Nature holds out her wide, sweet heart to him;And, leaning o'er the world's mysterious bar,His soul is great with everlasting light.
Helen Hay Whitney
The Lily whispered to the Rose:"The Tulip's fearfully stuck up.You'd think to see the creature's pose,She was a golden altar-cup.There's method in her boldness, too;She catches twice her share of Dew."The Rose into the Tulip's earMurmured: "The Lily is a sight;Don't you believe shepowders, dear,To make herself so saintly white?She takes some trouble, it is plain,Her reputation to sustain."Said Tulip to the Lily white:"About the Rose—what do you think?—Her color? Should you say it's quite—Well, quite a natural shade of pink?""Natural!" the Lily cried. "Good Saints!Why,everybodyknows she paints!"
The Lily whispered to the Rose:"The Tulip's fearfully stuck up.You'd think to see the creature's pose,She was a golden altar-cup.There's method in her boldness, too;She catches twice her share of Dew."
The Rose into the Tulip's earMurmured: "The Lily is a sight;Don't you believe shepowders, dear,To make herself so saintly white?She takes some trouble, it is plain,Her reputation to sustain."
Said Tulip to the Lily white:"About the Rose—what do you think?—Her color? Should you say it's quite—Well, quite a natural shade of pink?""Natural!" the Lily cried. "Good Saints!Why,everybodyknows she paints!"
Oliver Herford
Eef poor man goesAn' steals a roseEen Juna-time—Wan leetla rose—You gon' su'poseDat dat's a crime?Eh! w'at? Den taka look at me,For here bayfore your eyes you seeWan thief dat ees so glad an' proudHe gona brag of eet out loud!So moocha good I do, an' feelFrom dat wan leetla rose I steal,Dat eef I gon' to jail to-dayDey could no tak' my joy away.So, lees'en! here ees how eet com':Las' night w'en I am walkin' homeFrom work een hotta ceety street,Ees sudden com' a smal so sweetEet maka heaven een my nose—I look an' dere I see da rose!Not wan, but manny, fine an' tall,Dat peep at me above da wall.So, too, I close my eyes an' findAnudder peecture een my mind;I see a house dat's small an' hotWhere manny pretta theengs is not,Where leetla woman, good an' true,Ees work so hard da whole day through,She's too wore out, w'en com's da night,For smile an' mak' da housa bright.But, presto! now I'm home an' sheEes settin' on da step weeth me.Bambino, sleepin' on her breast,Ees nevva know more sweeta rest,An' nevva was sooch glad su'priseLike now ees shina from her eyes;An' all baycause to-night she wearWan leetla rose stuck een her hair.She ees so please'! Eet mak' me feelI shoulda sooner learned to steal.Eef "thief's" my nameI feel no shame;Eet ees no crime—Dat rose I got.Eh! w'at? O! notEen Juna-time!
Eef poor man goesAn' steals a roseEen Juna-time—Wan leetla rose—You gon' su'poseDat dat's a crime?
Eh! w'at? Den taka look at me,For here bayfore your eyes you seeWan thief dat ees so glad an' proudHe gona brag of eet out loud!So moocha good I do, an' feelFrom dat wan leetla rose I steal,Dat eef I gon' to jail to-dayDey could no tak' my joy away.So, lees'en! here ees how eet com':Las' night w'en I am walkin' homeFrom work een hotta ceety street,Ees sudden com' a smal so sweetEet maka heaven een my nose—I look an' dere I see da rose!Not wan, but manny, fine an' tall,Dat peep at me above da wall.So, too, I close my eyes an' findAnudder peecture een my mind;I see a house dat's small an' hotWhere manny pretta theengs is not,Where leetla woman, good an' true,Ees work so hard da whole day through,She's too wore out, w'en com's da night,For smile an' mak' da housa bright.
But, presto! now I'm home an' sheEes settin' on da step weeth me.Bambino, sleepin' on her breast,Ees nevva know more sweeta rest,An' nevva was sooch glad su'priseLike now ees shina from her eyes;An' all baycause to-night she wearWan leetla rose stuck een her hair.She ees so please'! Eet mak' me feelI shoulda sooner learned to steal.
Eef "thief's" my nameI feel no shame;Eet ees no crime—Dat rose I got.Eh! w'at? O! notEen Juna-time!
T. A. Daly
The man who wants a garden fair,Or small or very big,With flowers growing here and there,Must bend his back and dig.The things are mighty few on earthThat wishes can attain.Whate'er we want of any worthWe've got to work to gain.It matters not what goal you seek,Its secret here reposes:You've got to dig from week to weekTo get Results or Roses.
The man who wants a garden fair,Or small or very big,With flowers growing here and there,Must bend his back and dig.
The things are mighty few on earthThat wishes can attain.Whate'er we want of any worthWe've got to work to gain.
It matters not what goal you seek,Its secret here reposes:You've got to dig from week to weekTo get Results or Roses.
Edgar A. Guest
Yesterday the twig was brown and bare;To-day the glint of green is thereTo-morrow will be leaflets spare;I know no thing so wondrous fairNo miracle so strangely rare.I wonder what will next be there!
Yesterday the twig was brown and bare;To-day the glint of green is thereTo-morrow will be leaflets spare;I know no thing so wondrous fairNo miracle so strangely rare.
I wonder what will next be there!
L. H. Bailey
You little, eager, peeping thing—You embryonic point of lightPushing from out your winter night,How you do make my pulses sing!A tiny eye amid the gloom—The merest speck I scarce had seen—So doth God's rapture rend the tombIn this wee burst of April green!And lo, 'tis here—and lo! 'Tis there—Spurting its jets of sweet desireIn upward curling threads of fireLike tapers kindling all the air.Why, scarce it seems an hour agoThese branches clashed in bitter cold;What Power hath set their veins aglow?O soul of mine, be bold, be bold!If from this tree, this blackened thing,Hard as the floor my feet have prest,This flame of joy comes clamoringIn hues as red as robin's breastWaking to life this little twig—O faith of mine, be big! Be big!
You little, eager, peeping thing—You embryonic point of lightPushing from out your winter night,How you do make my pulses sing!A tiny eye amid the gloom—The merest speck I scarce had seen—So doth God's rapture rend the tombIn this wee burst of April green!
And lo, 'tis here—and lo! 'Tis there—Spurting its jets of sweet desireIn upward curling threads of fireLike tapers kindling all the air.Why, scarce it seems an hour agoThese branches clashed in bitter cold;What Power hath set their veins aglow?O soul of mine, be bold, be bold!If from this tree, this blackened thing,Hard as the floor my feet have prest,This flame of joy comes clamoringIn hues as red as robin's breastWaking to life this little twig—O faith of mine, be big! Be big!
Angela Morgan
The kindliest thing God ever made,His hand of very healing laidUpon a fevered world, is shade.His glorious company of treesThrow out their mantles, and on theseThe dust-stained wanderer finds ease.Green temples, closed against the beatOf noontime's blinding glare and heat,Open to any pilgrim's feet.The white road blisters in the sun;Now, half the weary journey done,Enter and rest, Oh, weary one!And feel the dew of dawn still wetBeneath thy feet, and so forgetThe burning highway's ache and fret.This is God's hospitality,And whoso rests beneath a treeHath cause to thank Him gratefully.
The kindliest thing God ever made,His hand of very healing laidUpon a fevered world, is shade.
His glorious company of treesThrow out their mantles, and on theseThe dust-stained wanderer finds ease.
Green temples, closed against the beatOf noontime's blinding glare and heat,Open to any pilgrim's feet.
The white road blisters in the sun;Now, half the weary journey done,Enter and rest, Oh, weary one!
And feel the dew of dawn still wetBeneath thy feet, and so forgetThe burning highway's ache and fret.
This is God's hospitality,And whoso rests beneath a treeHath cause to thank Him gratefully.
Theodosia Garrison
The wonderful, strong, angelic trees,With their blowing locks and their bared great kneesAnd nourishing bosoms, shout all together,And rush and rock through the glad wild weather.They are so old they teach me,With their strong hands they reach me,Into their breast my soul they take,And keep me there for wisdom's sake.They teach me little prayers;To-day I am their child;The sweet breath of their innocent airsBlows through me strange and wild.I never feel afraidAmong the trees;Of trees are houses made;And even with these,Unhewn, untouched, unseen,Is something homelike in the safe sweet green,Intimate in the shade.We are all brothers! Come, let's rest awhileIn the great kinship. Underneath the treesLet's be at home once more, with birds and beesAnd gnats and soil and stone. With these I mustAcknowledge family ties. Our mother, the dust,With wistful and investigating eyesSearches my soul for the old sturdiness,Valor, simplicity! Stout virtues these,We learned at her dear knees.Friend, you and IOnce played together in the good old days.Do you remember? Why, brother, down what wild waysWe traveled, when—That's right! Draw close to me!Come now, let's tell the tale beneath the old roof-tree.
The wonderful, strong, angelic trees,With their blowing locks and their bared great kneesAnd nourishing bosoms, shout all together,And rush and rock through the glad wild weather.
They are so old they teach me,With their strong hands they reach me,Into their breast my soul they take,And keep me there for wisdom's sake.
They teach me little prayers;To-day I am their child;The sweet breath of their innocent airsBlows through me strange and wild.
I never feel afraidAmong the trees;Of trees are houses made;And even with these,Unhewn, untouched, unseen,Is something homelike in the safe sweet green,Intimate in the shade.
We are all brothers! Come, let's rest awhileIn the great kinship. Underneath the treesLet's be at home once more, with birds and beesAnd gnats and soil and stone. With these I mustAcknowledge family ties. Our mother, the dust,With wistful and investigating eyesSearches my soul for the old sturdiness,Valor, simplicity! Stout virtues these,We learned at her dear knees.Friend, you and IOnce played together in the good old days.Do you remember? Why, brother, down what wild waysWe traveled, when—That's right! Draw close to me!Come now, let's tell the tale beneath the old roof-tree.