It will look down, even as the burning flower Smiles upon June, long after I am gone.

Dust-footed Time will never tell its hour, Through dusty Time its rose will draw men on,

Through dusty Time its beauty shall make plain Man, and, Without, a spirit scattering grain.

JOHN MASEFIELD

THE TILLING

The dull ox, Sorrow, treads my heart, Dragging the harrow, Pain, And turning the old year's tillage Under the sod again.

So, well do I know the Tiller Will bring once more the grain; For grief comes never to the strong-- Nor dull despair's benumbing wrong-- But from them spring a hidden throng Of seeds, for new life fain.

So heavily do I let the hoofs Trample the deeps of me; For only thus is spirit Brought to fecundity.

But when the ox is stabled And the harrow set aside, With calm I watch a new world grow, Sweetly green, up out of woe, And, glad of the Tiller, then I know He too is satisfied.

CALE YOUNG RICE

SAFE

Now shall your beauty never fade; For it was budding when you pa.s.sed Beyond this glare, into the shade Of fairer gardens unforecast, Where, by the dreaded Gardener's spade, Beauty, transplanted once, shall ever last.

Now never shall that glorious breast Wither, those deft hands lose their art, Nor those glad shoulders be oppressed By failing breath or fluttering heart, Nor, from the cheek by dawn possessed, The subtle ecstasy of hue depart.

Forever shall you be your best,-- Nay, far more luminously shine Than when our comradeship was blessed By what on earth seemed most divine, Before your body pa.s.sed to rest With what I then supposed this heart of mine.

Now shall your bud of beauty blow Far lovelier than I knew before When, such a little time ago, I looked upon your face, and swore That Helen's never moved men so When her white, magic hands enkindled war.

As you sweep on from power to power Shall every earthward thought you think Irradiate my lonely hour Till I shall taste the golden drink Of Life, and see the full-blown flower, Whose opening bud was mine, beyond the brink.

ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER

SORROW IN A GARDEN

Here in this ancient garden When Winter days had flown I came, with Comrade Sorrow To dwell with her alone.

Here in this sweet seclusion Far from the World's cold stare What exquisite communings Sorrow and I would share!

What banquets of remembrance!

What luxury of tears!

With Sorrow in a garden Through the rose-scented years!

But one day when she called me I did not hear her voice; I only heard the lilies Which sang "Rejoice, rejoice!"

The world was gold and azure The air was sweet with birds; My garden laughed with rapture How could I hear her words?

For June was in the garden And June was in my heart, And since that hour pale Sorrow And I have dwelt apart.

But often in the twilight When birds and gardens sleep I feel her presence with me Her arms about me creep.

And when the ghosts of Summer With the dead roses talk, I hear her softly sobbing Along the moonlit walk.

I never can forget her So intimate were we!

But Sorrow, in my garden Abides no more with me.

MAY RILEY SMITH

MOTH-FLOWERS

The pale moth Trembles in the white moonlight; Thus my heart trembles with love!

The rose petals fall-- The red petals of my heart; Oh, the breath of love!

Cool, sweet tears Of honey, the jasmine weeps; Burning fall the tears of love.

Oh, how bitter Is the White Poppy, Death; There are no more dreams of love.

JEANNE ROBERT FOSTER

ALCHEMY

I lift my heart as spring lifts up A yellow daisy to the rain; My heart will be a lovely cup Altho' it holds but pain.

For I shall learn from flower and leaf That color every drop they hold, To change the lifeless wine of grief To living gold.

SARA TEASDALE

FLOWERS IN THE DARK

Late in the evening, when the room had grown Too hot and tiresome with its flaring light And noisy voices, I stole out alone Into the darkness of the summer night.

Down the long garden-walk I slowly went, A little wind was stirring in the trees; I only saw the whitest of the flowers, And I was sorry that the earlier hours Of that fair evening had been so ill spent, Because I said, "I am content with these Dear friends of mine who only speak to me With their delicious fragrance, and who tell To me their gracious welcome silently."

The leaves that touch my hand with dew are wet; I find the tall white lilies I love well.

I linger as I pa.s.s the mignonette, And what surprise could clearer be than this: To find my sweet rose waiting with a kiss!

SARAH ORNE JEWETT

WELCOME

There is a hillside garden that their tender hands have tended, Below a house that holds for me a shrine of joy and light.

And there beneath a cloudless sun when June is warm and splendid I see them coming home to me, three girls in garments white.

Alice with lilies in her hands, and little dark Dolores Showing her glowing marigolds; and Iris last of all Under the arbor by the wall of purple morning-glories, Bringing my crimson ramblers back that sought to scale the wall.