I went out to the hazel wood Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream, And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor, I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And some one called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl, With apple-blossom in her hair, Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled gra.s.s, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

W. B. YEATS

THE THREE CHERRY TREES

There were three cherry trees once, Grew in a garden all shady; And there for delight of so gladsome a sight, Walked a most beautiful lady, Dreamed a most beautiful lady.

Birds in those branches did sing, Blackbird and throstle and linnet, But she walking there was by far the most fair-- Lovelier than all else within it, Blackbird and throstle and linnet.

But blossoms to berries do come, All hanging on stalks light and slender, And one long summer's day charmed that lady away, With vows sweet and merry and tender; A lover with voice low and tender.

Moss and lichen the green branches deck; Weeds nod in its paths green and shady; Yet a light footstep seems there to wander in dreams, The ghost of that beautiful lady, That happy and beautiful lady.

WALTER DE LA MARE

OLD GARDENS

The white rose tree that spent its musk For lovers' sweeter praise, The stately walks we sought at dusk, Have missed thee many days.

Again, with once-familiar feet, I tread the old parterre-- But, ah, its bloom is now less sweet Than when thy face was there.

I hear the birds of evening call; I take the wild perfume; I pluck a rose--to let it fall And perish in the gloom.

ARTHUR UPSON

THE BLOOMING OF THE ROSE

What is it like, to be a rose?

_Old Roses, softly_, "Try and see."

Nay, I will tarry. Let me be In my green peacefulness and smile.

I will stay here and dream awhile.

'Tis well for little buds to dream, Dream--dream--who knows-- Say, is it good to be a rose?

Old roses, tell me! Is it good?

_Old Roses, very softly_, "Good."

I am afraid to be a rose!

This little sphere wherein I wait, Curled up and small and delicate, Lets in a twilight of pure green, Wherein are dreams of night and morn And the sweet stillness of a world Where all things are that are unborn.

_Old Roses_, "Better to be born."

I cannot be a bud for long.

My sheath is like a heart full blown, And I, the silence of a song Withdrawn into that heart alone, Well knowing that it shall be sung.

Outside the great world comes and goes-- I think I doubt, to be a rose--

_Old Roses_, "Doubt? To be a Rose!"

ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

THE GARDEN OF MNEMOSYNE

There are no roses in the garden now, The summer birds have vanished oversea, The ashen keys hang rusty on the bough, Autumn's gold ensigns flame from tree to tree.

Music and perfume sleep, and light is fled, Autumn's fine gold is faery gold, we know.

Where shall we turn for joy when flowers are dead, When birds are silent, and the cold winds blow?

The summer birds have vanished oversea, But Memory's palace-courts are full of song; There sings a nightingale for you and me, And there a hidden lute plays all day long.

There are no roses in the garden now, But Memory's garden grows each day more fair; Sun, moon, and stars her orchard close endow, And there bloom roses--roses everywhere.

ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON

BALLADE OF THE DREAMLAND ROSE

Where the waves of burning cloud are rolled On the further sh.o.r.e of the sunset sea, In a land of wonder that none behold, There blooms a rose on the Dreamland Tree That stands in the Garden of Mystery Where 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 endlessly A 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 unclose To the sound of that distant melody, A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.

Dreams and visions in hosts untold Throng 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

Princess, you gaze in a reverie Where the drowsy firelight redly glows; Slowly you raise your eyes to me ...

A petal falls from the Dreamland Rose.

BRIAN HOOKER

THE FLOWERS OF JUNE

These flowers of June The gates of memory unbar; These flowers of June Such old-time harmonies retune, I fain would keep the gates ajar, So full of sweet enchantment are These 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.