But we did walk in Eden, Eden, the garden of G.o.d;-- There, where no beckoning wonder Of all the paths we trod, No choiring sun-filled vineyard, No voice of stream or bird, But was some radiant oracle And flaming with the Word!

Mine ears are dim with voices; Mine eyes yet strive to see The black things here to wonder at, The mirth,--the misery.

Beloved, who wert with me there, How came these shames to be?-- On what lost star are we?

Men say: The paths of gladness By men were never trod!-- But we have walked in Eden, Eden, the garden of G.o.d.

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY

A GARDEN-PIECE

Among the flowers of summer-time she stood, And underneath the films and blossoms shone Her face, like some pomegranate strangely grown To ripe magnificence in solitude; The wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewed Her shoulders with her shining hair out blown, And dyed her breast with many a changing tone Of silvery green, and all the hues that brood Among the flowers; She raised her arm up for her dove to know That he might preen him on her lovely head; Then I, unseen, and rising on tiptoe, Bowed over the rose-barriers, and lo!

Touched not her arm, but kissed her lips instead, Among the flowers!

EDMUND GOSSE

"HOW MANY FLOWERS ARE GENTLY MET"

How many flowers are gently met Within my garden fair!

The daffodil, the violet, And lilies dear are there.

They fade and pa.s.s, the fleeting flowers, And brief their little light; They hold not Love's diviner hours, Nor Sower's human night.

Tho' one by one their bloom depart, No change thy lover knows, For mine the fragrance of thy heart, O thou my perfect rose!

GEORGE STERLING

WITH A ROSE, TO BRUNHILDE

Brunhilde, with the young Norn soul That has no peace, and grim as those That spun the thread of life, give heed: Peace is concealed in every rose.

And in these petals peace I bring: A jewel clearer than the dew: A perfume subtler than the breath Of Spring with which it circles you.

Peace I have found, asleep, awake, By many paths, on many a strand.

Peace overspreads the sky with stars.

Peace is concealed within your hand.

And when at night I clasp it there I wonder how you never know The strength you shed from finger-tips: The treasure that consoles me so.

Begin the art of finding peace, Beloved:--it is art, no less.

Sometimes we find it hid beneath The orchards in their springtime dress: Sometimes one finds it in oak woods, Sometimes in dazzling mountain-snows; In books, sometimes. But pray begin By finding it within a rose.

VACHEL LINDSAY

"MY SOUL IS LIKE A GARDEN-CLOSE"

My soul is like a garden-close Where marjoram and lilac grow, Where soft the scent of long ago Over the border lightly blows.

Where sometimes homing winds at play Bear the faint fragrance of a rose-- My soul is like a garden-close Because you chanced to pa.s.s my way.

THOMAS S. JONES, JR.

A DREAM

I dreamed a dream of roses somewhere breathing Their sweet souls out upon the summer night: The flowers I saw not, but their fragrance wreathing Like clouds of incense filled me with delight.

And then as if for my still further pleasure There came a flood of sweetest melody,-- But whence I knew not flowed the wondrous measure, For neither flute nor viol could I see.

Then in the vision love sublime, immortal, Encircled all my soul with its pure stream; And though I saw thee not through dreamland's portal, I knew thou only hadst inspired the dream.

'Tis thus thine influence itself discloses, In dreams of love, of music, and of roses!

ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY PATTERSON

THE ROSE

The rose-tree wears a diadem, Both bud and bloom of gold and fire, Too high upon the slender stem For baby hands that reach for them:

And _Roses!_ my brown Elsa cries: Her chubby arms in vain aspire.

But rose-leaf Hilda smiles and sighs And worships them with patient eyes.

I gathered them a rose or two, But not the shy one hanging higher That brushed my lips with honey-dew!

_That_ is the rose I send to you.

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

PRAYER

Would that I might become you, Losing myself, my sweet!-- So longs the dust that lies About the rose's feet.

So longs the last, dim star Hung on the verge of night;-- She moves--she melts--she slips-- She trembles into the light.

JOHN HALL WHEELOCK

IN A GARDEN

I sat one day within a garden fair Pining for thee and sad because alone, Wishing some fate could send thee to me there.

All things appeared to share my saddened mood, Each flower drooped, the sun was hid from view, The very birds in silence seemed to brood.

Then, as I day-dreamed with my eyes half closed, Sudden the birds began to sing again, The flow'rs, uplifting heads, no longer dozed.

Thinking the sun had come once more for me And for all nature, to effect such change, I turned and lo! saw not the sun but thee.

LIVINGSTON L. BIDDLE