Thou little veil for so great mystery, When shall I penetrate all things and thee, And then look back? For this I must abide,

Till thou shalt grow and fold and be unfurled Literally between me and the world.

Then I shall drink from in beneath a spring,

And from a poet's side shall read his book.

O daisy mine, what will it be to look From G.o.d's side even of such a simple thing?

ALICE MEYNELL

A SOFT DAY

A soft day, thank G.o.d!

A wind from the south With a honeyed mouth; A scent of drenching leaves, Briar and beech and lime, White elder-flower and thyme And the soaking gra.s.s smells sweet, Crushed by my two bare feet, While the rain drips, Drips, drips, drips from the eaves.

A soft day, thank G.o.d!

The hills wear a shroud Of silver cloud; The web the spider weaves Is a glittering net; The woodland path is wet, And the soaking earth smells sweet Under my two bare feet, And the rain drips, Drips, drips, drips from the eaves.

W. M. LETTS

ARBUTUS

Not Spring's Thou art, but hers, Most cool, most virginal, Winter's, with thy faint breath, thy snows Rose-tinged.

ADELAIDE c.r.a.pSEY

JEWEL-WEED

Thou lonely, dew-wet mountain road, Traversed by toiling feet each day, What rare enchantment maketh thee Appear so gay?

Thy sentinels, on either hand Rise tamarack, birch, and balsam-fir, O'er the familiar shrubs that greet The wayfarer;

But here's a magic cometh new-- A joy to gladden thee, indeed: This pa.s.sionate out-flowering of The jewel-weed,

That now, when days are growing drear, As Summer dreams that she is old, Hangs out a myriad pleasure-bells Of mottled gold!

Thine only, these, thou lonely road!

Though hands that take, and naught restore, Rob thee of other treasured things, Thine these are, for

A fairy, cradled in each bloom, To all who pa.s.s the charmed spot Whispers in warning: "Friend, admire,-- But touch me not!

"Leave me to blossom where I sprung, A joy untarnished shall I seem; Pluck me, and you dispel the charm And blur the dream!"

FLORENCE EARLE COATES

THE WALL

"_Something there is that doesn't like a wall._" (ROBERT FROST)

"Not like a wall?"

I sit above the meadow in the glowing fall Tracing the grey redoubt from square to square Which bound the acres harvest-ripe and fair,-- And wonder if it's true?

Nay, ask the sumac and the teeming vine, That lean upon the boulders, The crimsoning ivy and the wild woodbine Whose eager fingers clutch the stony shoulders, The golden rod, the aster and the rue.

Ask the red squirrel with the chubby cheek Skipping from stone to stone By a quick route, his hidden h.o.a.rd to seek, Making the little viaduct his own.

Look where the woodchuck lifts a cautious head Between the rocks close by the cabbage bed; The honey-bees have built a secret hive In a forgotten c.h.i.n.k; And there a grey coc.o.o.n is tucked away Shrouding a miracle in mauve and pink To wait its Easter day.

The wall with pageantry is all alive!

And I who gaze On the dark border here, Drawn like a ribbon round the pasture-ways, Embroidered with the glory of the year,-- Do I not like the wall?

Lo, I remember how in days of old My grandsire toiled with weariness and pain To dig the c.u.mbering boulders from the mould; Piled them in ordered rows again, Fitting them firm and fast, A monument to last Long after his own harried day was past.

He cleared the rocky soil for corn and grain By which his children throve To carry on the race.

We live by his life-giving.

I see each stone, rough like his granite face,-- Uncompromising, stern, no slave to love, Dowered with little grace, Grim with the hard, unjoyful task of living, But strong to stand the wrath of storm and time, And bolts that heaven let fall.

Built of a patriot's prime,-- I love the wall!

ABBIE FARWELL BROWN

BOULDERS

There is a look of wisdom in yon stones, Great boulders basking in the noonday heat, Their grimness lightened by a fringe of sweet Fresh fern or moss or green-gray lichen tones.

While through the glade an insect army drones And birds from neighboring boughs their notes repeat, These patriarchs, drowsing as in bliss complete, Rest on the flowery sward their tranquil bones.

A thousand or ten thousand years ago, Shattered by frost, or by the torrent's might, These boulders hurtled from some toppling height And crashed through forests to the plain below.

Now, reconciled to Nature's gentler mood, They lie on lowly earth and find it good.

CHARLES WHARTON STORK

AFTERNOON ON A HILL

I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun; I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one;

I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes; Watch the wind bow down the gra.s.s, And the gra.s.s rise;

And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down.

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

THE GOLDEN-ROD

O Rod of gold!

O swaying sceptre of the year-- Now frost and cold Show Winter near, And shivering leaves grow brown and sere.

The bleak hillside, And marshy waste of yellow reeds, And meadows wide Where frosted weeds Shake on the damp wind light-winged seeds, Are decked with thee,-- The lingering Summer's latest grace, And sovereignty.

Each wind-swept s.p.a.ce Waves thy red gold in Winter's face-- He strives each star, In stormy pride to lay full low; But when thy bar Resists his blow, Will crown thee with a puff of snow!

MARGARET DELAND