NORMAN GALE

ROSE-GERANIUM

A pungent spray of rose-geranium-- A breath of the old life.

It brings up the little five-room cottage where I was born, And where I grew through a smiling childhood.

The white-bearded grandfather sits in his mended rocking-chair, His eyes far off, crooning "The Sweet By and By,"

Marked with the tapping of his toe upon the weathered porch-floor, While the sunshine drizzles through the great oaks.

And there is my grandmother's kneeling figure, Turning over the rich black earth with her trowel; And the kind wrinkles on her face, as she says: "Didn't the pansies do finely this year, Clem?

And the scarlet verbenas, and the larkspurs, And the row of flaming salvia....

Those roses ... they're Marechal Niels ... my favorites.

And little grandson, smell this spray of rose-geranium-- Just think, when grandmother was a little tiny girl Her grandmother grew them in her yard!"

CLEMENT WOOD

FOUR O'CLOCKS

It is mid-afternoon. Long, long ago Each morning-glory sheathed the slender horn It blew so gayly on the hills of morn, And fainted in the noontide's fervid glow.

Gone are the dew-drops from the rose's heart-- Gone with the freshness of the early hours, The songs that filled the air with silver showers, The lovely dreams that were of morn a part.

Yet still in tender light the garden lies; The warm, sweet winds are whispering soft and low; Brown bees and b.u.t.terflies flit to and fro; The peace of heaven is in the o'erarching skies.

And here be four-o'clocks, just opening wide Their many colored petals to the sun, As glad to live as if the evening dun Were far away, and morning had not died!

JULIA C. R. DORR

ASKING FOR ROSES

A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master, With doors that none but the wind ever closes, Its floor all littered with gla.s.s and with plaster; It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.

I pa.s.s by that way in the gloaming with Mary; "I wonder," I say, "who the owner of those is."

"Oh, no one you know," she answers me airy, "But one we must ask if we want any roses."

So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly There in the hush of the wood that reposes, And turn and go up to the open door boldly, And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.

"Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?"

'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses.

"Pray are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!

'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.

"A word with you, that of the singer recalling-- Old Herrick: a saying that every man knows is A flower unplucked is but left to the falling, And nothing is gained by not gathering roses."

We do not loosen our hands' intertwining (Not caring so very much what she supposes), There when she comes on us mistily shining And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.

ROBERT FROST

THE OLD BROCADE

In a black oak chest all carven, We found it laid, Still faintly sweet of Lavender, An old brocade.

With that perfume came a vision, A garden fair, Enclosed by great yew hedges; A Lady there, Is culling fresh blown lavender, And singing goes Up and down the alleys green-- A human rose.

The sun glints on her auburn hair And brightens, too, The silver buckles that adorn Each little shoe.

Her 'kerchief and her elbow sleeves Are cobweb lace; Her gown, it is our old brocade, Worn with a grace.

Methinks I hear its soft frou-frou, And see the sheen Of its dainty pink moss-rose buds, Their leaves soft green, On a ground of palest sh.e.l.l pink, In garlands laid; But long dead the Rose who wore it-- The old brocade.

M. G. BRERETON

STAIRWAYS AND GARDENS

Gardens and Stairways; those are words that thrill me Always with vague suggestions of delight.

Stairways and Gardens. Mystery and grace Seem part of their environment; they fill all s.p.a.ce With memories of things veiled from my sight In some far place.

Gardens. The word is overcharged with meaning; It speaks of moonlight, and a closing door; Of birds at dawn--of sultry afternoons.

Gardens. I seem to see low branches screening A vine-roofed arbor with a leaf-tiled floor Where sunlight swoons.

Stairways. The word winds upward to a landing, Then curves and vanishes in s.p.a.ce above.

Lights fall, lights rise; soft lights that meet and blend.

Stairways; and some one at the bottom standing Expectantly with lifted looks of love.

Then steps descend.

Gardens and Stairways. They belong with song-- With subtle scents of perfume, myrrh and musk-- With dawn and dusk--with youth, romance, and mystery, And times that were and times that are to be.

Stairways and Gardens.

ELLA WHEELER WILc.o.x

OLD MOTHERS

I love old mothers--mothers with white hair, And kindly eyes, and lips grown softly sweet With murmured blessings over sleeping babes.

There is a something in their quiet grace That speaks the calm of Sabbath afternoons; A knowledge in their deep, unfaltering eyes That far outreaches all philosophy.

Time, with caressing touch, about them weaves The silver-threaded fairy-shawl of age, While all the echoes of forgotten songs Seem joined to lend a sweetness to their speech.

Old mothers!--as they pace with slow-timed step, Their trembling hands cling gently to youth's strength; Sweet mothers!--as they pa.s.s, one sees again Old garden-walks, old roses, and old loves.

CHARLES ROSS

PASTURES AND HILLSIDES

SONG FROM "APRIL"