REST AT NOON

Now with a re-created mind Back to the world my way I find;

Fed by the hills one little hour, By meadow-slope and beechen-bower,

Cedar serene, benignant larch, h.o.a.r mountains and the azure arch

Where dazzling vapors make vast sport In G.o.d's profound and s.p.a.cious court.

The universe played with me. Earth Harped to high heaven her sweetest mirth;

The clouds built castles for my pleasure, And airy legions without measure

Flung, spindrift-wise, across the sky To thrill my heart once and to die.

I have held converse with large things; For cherubim with cooling wings

Brushed me, and gay stars, hid from view, Called through the arras of the blue

And clapped their hands: "These veils uproll!

And see the comrades of your soul!"

The very flowers that ringed my bed Their little "G.o.d-be-with-you" said,

And every insect, bird and bee Brought cool cups from eternity.

HERMANN HAGEDORN

ORDER

It is half-past eight on the blossomy bush: The petals are spread for a sunning; The little gold fly is scrubbing his face; The spider is nervously running To fasten a thread; the night-going moth Is folding his velvet perfection; And presently over the clover will come The bee on a tour of inspection.

PAUL SCOTT MOWRER

THE NIGHT-MOTH

My night-moth, my white moth, out of the fragrant dark Blowing in and growing like a dim star-spark, So swift in the shifting of your elfin wings, So slight in your lighting, as a flower that clings, As a boat to ride the dew, with sheer up-bearing sails, Pulsing and breathing, rocked with delicate gales,-- You gleam as a dream, by my window's light, My white moth, my bright moth, my wandering wraith of night.

From the velvet screening of a great gray cloud The moon floats swiftly, white and open-browed, Flooding cloud and water with her shining trail, Till the night shrinks, sighing, behind the radiant veil; The night, with her shy soul, to the deep wood slips-- Her shy soul, her high soul, shrine of all the stars; And you fly, like the sigh from her tender lips, Athwart the wavering shadows, beating the silver bars; You fleet in the meeting of the dark and bright, My light moth, my white moth, spark from the soul of night.

MARION COUTHOUY SMITH

THE b.u.t.tERFLY

O winged brother on the harebell, stay-- Was G.o.d's hand very pitiful, the hand That wrought thy beauty at a dream's demand?

_Yes, knowing I love so well the flowery way, He did not fling me to the world astray-- He did not drop me to the weary sand, But bore me gently to a leafy land: Tinting my wings, He gave me to the day._

Oh, chide no more my doubting, my despair!

I will go back now to the world of men.

Farewell, I leave thee to the world of air, Yet thou hast girded up my heart again; For He that framed the impenetrable plan, And keeps His word with thee, will keep with man.

EDWIN MARKHAM

THE SECRET

O, little bird, you sing As if all months were June; Pray tell me ere you go The secret of your tune?

"I have no hidden word To tell, nor mystic art; I only know I sing The song within my heart!"

ARTHUR WALLACE PEACH

THE GARDENS OF YESTERDAY

THE GARDEN

_Old gardens have a language of their own, And mine sweet speech to linger in the heart.

A goodly place it is and primly s.p.a.ced, With straight box-bordered paths and squares of bloom.

Bay-trees by rows of antique urns tell tales Of one who loved the gardens Dante loved.

Magnolias edge the placid lily-pool And flank the sagging seat, whence vista leads To blaze of rhododendrons banked in green.

Azaleas by the scarlet quince flame up Against the l.u.s.trous grape-vines trellised high To pigeon-cote and old brick wall where hide First snowdrops and the bravest violets.

A place of solitudes whose silences Enfold the heart as an unquiet bird._

GERTRUDE HUNTINGTON MCGIFFERT

OLD HOMES

Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens; Their old rock fences, that our day inherits; Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens; Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits; Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.

I see them gray among their ancient acres, Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,-- Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers, Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,-- Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.

Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies-- Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers-- Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies, And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers, And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.

I love their orchards where the gay woodp.e.c.k.e.r Flits, flashing o'er you, like a winged jewel; Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker With half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal, The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodp.e.c.k.e.r.

Old homes! Old hearts! Upon my soul forever Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter; Like love they touch me, through the years that sever, With simple faith; like friendship, draw me after The dreamy patience that is theirs forever.

MADISON CAWEIN

A PURITAN LADY'S GARDEN