JAMES TERRY WHITE

IN MEMORY'S GARDEN

There is a garden in the twilight lands Of Memory, where troops of b.u.t.terflies Flutter adown the cypress paths, and bands Of flowers mysterious droop their drowsy eyes.

There through the silken hush come footfalls faint And hurried through the vague parterres, and sighs Whispering of rapture or of sweet complaint Like ceaseless parle of bees and b.u.t.terflies.

And by one lonely pathway steal I soon To find the flowerings of the old delight Our hearts together knew--when lo, the moon Turns all the cypress alleys into white.

THOMAS WALSH

SERENADE

Dark is the iris meadow, Dark is the ivory tower, And lightly the young moth's shadow Sleeps on the pa.s.sion-flower.

Gone are our day's red roses.

So lovely and lost and few, But the first star uncloses A silver bud in the blue.

Night, and a flame in the embers Where the seal of the years was set,-- When the almond-bough remembers How shall my heart forget?

MARJORIE L. C. PICKTHALL

"WHAT HEART BUT FEARS A FRAGRANCE?"

What heart but fears a fragrance?

Alien they Who breathe in the white lilac only May; For there be other spirits unto whom Fate's kiss lies dreaming in each stray perfume!

Who mock at ghosts of odour--poor they be!

Bereft the scented balms of memory, For unto one in April's rain-blest earth There starts for aye the sharp, glad cry of birth; And Love will find in rooms unbarred for years Familiar sweetness loosing sudden tears, Clasping the will in mastering embrace As in the presence of a phantom grace.

Then there be odours pungent--fires in Fall The gipsying of boyhood to recall; And there be perfumes holy--nay, but one Whose pang is like none other 'neath the sun To drown the sinking senses in a joy Beyond all time to weaken or destroy!

Odours there be that swoon, entreat, caress-- Elusive thrall, to doom or stab or bless; Each vagrant scent that holds the breath in fee Doth wed the heart in Life's eternity.

Who fear no wraiths of fragrance--sorry they; Who breathe in lilac odours only May; For there be other mortals unto whom White magic wanders in each stray perfume.

MARTHA GILBERT d.i.c.kINSON BIANCHI

YEARS AFTERWARD

It is not sight or sound That, when a heart forgets, Most makes it to remember: It's some old poignant scent re-found-- Like breath of April violets, Or apples of September.

It isn't song or scene That stirs the tears again: It's brush smoke from the hills at night, Spicy and sweet; or that wet, keen, Long lost aroma of delight, Fresh ploughed fields after rain.

NANCY BYRD TURNER

AUTUMNAL

Across the scented garden of my dreams Where roses grew, Time pa.s.ses like a thief, Among my trees his silver sickle gleams, The gra.s.s is stained with many a ruddy leaf; And on cold winds the petals float away That were the pride of June and her array.

The bare boughs weave a net upon the sky To catch Love's wings and his fair body bruise; There are no flowers in the rosary-- No song-birds in the mournful avenues; Though on the sodden air not lightly breaks The elegy of Youth, whom love forsakes.

Ah, Time! one flower of all my garden spare, One rose of all the roses, that in this I may possess my love's perfumed hair And all the crimson secrets of her kiss.

Grant me one rose that I may drink its wine, And from her lips win the last anodyne.

For I have learnt too many things to live, And I have loved too many things to die; But all my barren acres I would give For one red blossom of eternity, To animate the darkness and delight The s.p.a.ces and the silences of night.

But dreams are tender flowers that in their birth Are very near to death, and I shall reap, Who planted wonder, unavailing earth, Harsh thorns and miserable husks of sleep.

I have had dreams, but have not conquered Time, And love shall vanish like an empty rhyme.

RICHARD MIDDLETON

"OH, TELL ME HOW MY GARDEN GROWS"

Oh, tell me how my garden grows, Now I no more may labor there; Do still the lily and the rose Bloom on without my fostering care?

Do peonies blush as deep with pride, The larkspurs burn as bright a blue, And velvet pansies stare as wide I wonder, as they used to do?

The tender things that would not blow Unless I coaxed them, do they raise Their petals in a st.u.r.dy row, Forgetful, to the stranger's gaze?

Or do they show a paler shade, And sigh a little in the wind For one whose sheltering presence made Their step-dame Nature less unkind?

Oh, tell me how my garden grows, Where I no more may take delight, And if some dream of me it knows, Who dream of it by day and night.

MILDRED HOWELLS

HER GARDEN

This was her dearest walk last year. Her hands Set all the tiny plants, and tenderly Pressed firm the unfamiliar soil; and she It was who watered them at evening time.

She loved them; and I too, because of her.

And now another June has come, while I Am walking in the shadow, sad, alone.

Yet when I reach the rose-path that was hers, And breathe the fragrancy of bud and bloom, She stands beside; the murmur of the leaves, The well-remembered rustle of her gown, And low her whisper comes, "My dear! My dear!"

This is her garden. Only she and I-- But always we--may walk its hallowed ways; And all the thoughts she planted in my heart, Sunned with her smile, and chastened with her tears, Again have blossomed--love's perennials.

ELDREDGE DENISON

THE LITTLE GHOST

I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked,-- The wall is high--higher than most-- And the green gate was locked;

And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone; I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on,