_I know Where the wind flowers blow!

I know, I have been Where the wild honey bees Gather honey for their queen!_

_I would be A wild flower, Blue sky over me, For an hour ... an hour!

So the wild bees Should seek and discover me, And kiss me ... kiss me ... kiss me!

Not one of the dusky dears should miss me!_

_I know Where the wind flowers blow!

I know, I have been Where the little rabbits run In the warm, yellow sun!_

_Oh, to be a wild flower For an hour ... an hour ...

In the heather!

A bright flower, a wild flower, Blown by the weather!_

_I know, I have been Where the wild honey bees Gather Honey for their queen!_

IRENE RUTHERFORD MCLEOD

THE ROAD TO THE POOL

I know a road that leads from town, A pale road in a Watteau gown Of wild-rose sprays, that runs away All fragrant-sandaled, slim and gray.

It slips along the laurel grove And down the hill, intent to rove, And crooks an arm of shadow cool Around a willow-silvered pool.

I never travel very far Beyond the pool where willows are: There is a shy and native grace That hovers all about the place,

And resting there I hardly know Just where it was I meant to go, Contented like the road that dozes In panniered gown of briar roses.

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

THE WILD ROSE

Summer has crossed the fields, and where she trod Violets bloom; the dancing wind-flowers nod, And daisies blossom all across the sod.

She pa.s.sed the brook, and in their glad surprise The first forget-me-nots smiled at the skies And caught the very color of her eyes.

But, sleeping in the meadow-land, she pressed The dear wild rose so closely to her breast It stole her heart--and so she loves it best.

CHARLES BUXTON GOING

UP A HILL AND A HILL

Up a hill and a hill there's a sudden orchard-slope, And a little tawny field in the sun; There's a gray wall that coils like a twist of frayed-out rope, And gra.s.ses nodding news one to one.

Up a hill and a hill there's a windy place to stand, And between the apple-boughs to find the blue Of the sleepy summer sea, past the cliffs of orange sand, With the white charmed ships sliding through.

Up a hill and a hill there's a little house as gray As a stone that the glaciers scored and stained; With a red rose by the door, and a tangled garden-way, And a face at the window, checker-paned.

I could climb, I could climb, till the shoes fell off my feet, Just to find that tawny field above the sea!

Up a hill and a hill,--oh, the honeysuckle's sweet!

And the eyes at the window watch for me!

FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS

THE JOYS OF A SUMMER MORNING

The smell of the morning that lurks in the hay, The swish of the scythe And the roundelay Of the meadow-lark as he wings away, Are the joys of a summer morning.

The daisy's bloom on the meadow's breast, The wandering bee And his ceaseless quest Of the tempting sweets in the clover's crest, Are the joys of a summer morning.

The lowing kine on a distant hill, The rollicking fall Of the near-by rill And the lazy drone of the ancient mill, Are the joys of a summer morning.

The feathery clouds in a faultless sky, The new-risen sun With its kindly eye And the woodland breezes floating by, Are the joys of a summer morning.

HENRY A. WISE WOOD

SOUTH WIND

Where have you been, South Wind, this May-day morning, With larks aloft, or skimming with the swallow, Or with blackbirds in a green, sun-glinted thicket?

Oh, I heard you like a tyrant in the valley; Your ruffian hosts shook the young, blossoming orchards; You clapped rude hands, hallooing round the chimney, And white your pennons streamed along the river.

You have robbed the bee, South Wind, in your adventure, Bl.u.s.tering with gentle flowers; but I forgave you When you stole to me shyly with scent of hawthorn.

SIEGFRIED Sa.s.sOON

TO A WEED

You bold thing! thrusting 'neath the very nose Of her fastidious majesty, the rose, Even in the best ordained garden bed, Unauthorized, your smiling little head!

The gardener, mind! will come in his big boots, And drag you up by your rebellious roots, And cast you forth to shrivel in the sun, Your daring quelled, your little weed's life done.

And when the noon cools, and the sun drops low, He'll come again with his big wheelbarrow, And trundle you--I don't know clearly where, But off, outside the dew, the light, the air.

Meantime--ah, yes! the air is very blue, And gold the light, and diamond the dew,-- You laugh and courtesy in your worthless way, And you are gay, ah, so exceeding gay!

You argue in your manner of a weed, You did not make yourself grow from a seed, You fancy you've a claim to standing-room, You dream yourself a right to breathe and bloom.

The sun loves you, you think, just as the rose, He never scorned you for a weed,--he knows!

The green-gold flies rest on you and are glad, It's only cross old gardeners find you bad.

You know, you weed, I quite agree with you, I am a weed myself, and I laugh too,-- Both, just as long as we can shun his eye, Let's sniff at the old gardener trudging by!

GERTRUDE HALL