THE CHAMPA FLOWER

Supposing I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?

You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet.

I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.

When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.

When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading _Ramayana_, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading.

But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child?

When in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.

"Where have you been, you naughty child?"

"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say then.

RABINDRANATH TAGORE

IN AN EGYPTIAN GARDEN

Can it be winter otherwhere?

Forsooth, it seems not so!

The moonlight on the garden square Must be the only snow, For all about me, fragrant fair, The blooms of summer blow.

Wine-lipped and beautiful and bland, The rose displays its dower; The heavy-scented citron and The stainless lily-tower; And whiter than a houri's hand, El Ful, the Arab flower.

In purple silhouette a palm Lifts from a vine-wreathed plinth Against a sky whose cloudless calm Is hued like hyacinth; And echoes with a bulbul's psalm The jasmine labyrinth.

In life's tumultuous ocean swell Here is a charmed isle; I hear a late muezzin tell His holy tale the while, And like the faint notes of a bell The boat-songs of old Nile.

Across my spirit thrills no theme That is not marvel-bright; I see within the lotus gleam The nectar of delight, And, tasting it, I drift and dream Adown the glamoured night!

CLINTON SCOLLARD

EVENING IN OLD j.a.pAN

Peaceful and mellow looks the sky to-night As some great Buddha made of ivory, Upon whose brow is set a moonstone white, The shining emblem of its purity.

A dim blue haze like incense, rising high, Merges together mountain, tree, and stream; But over all still broods an ivory sky Cloudless as Buddha's face, one gem agleam.

ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY PATTERSON

REFLECTIONS

When I looked into your eyes, I saw a garden With peonies, and tinkling paG.o.das, And round-arched bridges Over still lakes.

A woman sat beside the water In a rain-blue, silken garment.

She reached through the water To pluck the crimson peonies Beneath the surface.

But as she grasped the stems, They jarred and broke into white-green ripples.

And as she drew out her hand, The water drops dripping from it Stained her rain-blue dress like tears.

AMY LOWELL

IN THE GARDEN

Do you remember, Sister, The golden afternoon When we looked upon the lotus And listened to the croon Of the doves that sat together Among the flowers of June?

And deep among the valleys A far, sweet sound was heard-- Some fluter in the forest That like a magic bird Sang of the unseen heavens And mystic Way and Word.

PAI TA-SHUN

THE DESERTED GARDEN

I hear no more the swish of silks Along the marble walks; The autumn wind blows sharp and cold Among the flowerless stalks.

In place of petals of the peach Fast drifts the yellow leaf; And looking in the lotus-pond I see one face of grief.

PAI TA-SHUN

A ROMAN GARDEN

All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail, Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale.

Below the Sabine mountain The tossed and slender fountain Will curve, a lily pale; And where the plumed pine soars tallest, 'Tis there, O nightingale, thou callest; Where the loud water leaps the highest.

'Tis there, O nightingale, thou criest; In the dripping luscious dark, Hark, oh, hark!

Wonderful, delirious, Soul of joy mysterious.

A garden full of fragrances, Of pauses and of cadences, Whence come they all?

Of cypresses and ilex-trees, Plumes and dark candles like to these Were long ago Persephone's.

All night within that garden The glimmering G.o.ds of stone, The satyrs and the naiads Will laugh to be alone, In starless courts of shadows By silence overgrown, Save for the nightingale's Wild lyric thither blown.

By pools and dusky closes Dim shapes will move about, Twirled wands and masks and faces, Dancers and wreaths of roses, The moonlight's trick, no doubt.

A naked nymph upon the stair, A sculptured vine that clasps the air,-- And then one Bacchic bird somewhere Will pour his pa.s.sion out.

All night above that garden the rose-flushed moon will sail, Making the darkness deeper where hides the nightingale.

Down yonder velvet alley, Floats Daphne like a feather, A finger bidding silence, The dark and she together.

Look, where the secret fount is misting.

Apollo, thou shalt have thy trysting: For where a ruined sphinx lay smiling The wood-girl waits thee, white, beguiling.