I'd love to sit on a clover-top And sway, And swing and shake, till the dew would drop In spray; To croon a song for the b.u.mble-bee To leave his golden honey with me, And sway and swing, till the wind would stop To play.

I'd weave a hammock of spider-thread Loose-hung, Where gra.s.ses nodded above my head And swung.

And all day long, while the hammock swayed I'd twine and tangle the sun and shade, Till the crickets' song, "It is time for bed!"

Was sung.

Then wrapped in a wee gold sunset cloud I'd lie, While night winds sang to the stars that crowd The sky.

And all night long, I would swing and sleep While fireflies lighted their lamps to peep-- "Oh, hush!" they'd whisper, if frogs sang loud-- "Oh hush-a-by!"

CHARLES BUXTON GOING

FRINGED GENTIANS

Near where I live there is a lake As blue as blue can be, winds make It dance as they go blowing by.

I think it curtseys to the sky.

It's just a lake of lovely flowers, And my Mamma says they are ours; But they are not like those we grow To be our very own, you know.

We have a splendid garden, there Are lots of flowers everywhere; Roses, and pinks, and four o'clocks, And hollyhocks, and evening stocks.

Mamma lets us pick them, but never Must we pick any gentians--ever!

For if we carried them away They'd die of homesickness that day.

AMY LOWELL

THE SCISSORS-MAN

As I was busy with my tools That make my garden neat, I heard a little crooked tune Come drifting up the street.

It didn't seem to have an end Like others that are plain; You always felt it going on Till it began again.

It came quite near: I heard it call, And dropped my tools and ran To peer out through the gate; I thought it might be Pan.

But it was just the scissors-man Who walked along and played Upon a little instrument He told me he had made.

Now, if you hope to see a G.o.d As hard to find as Pan, It's sad when it turns out to be A plain old scissors-man.

But when my mother came to hear The crooked tune he made, She said his instrument was like Some pipes that Pan had played.

And I must ask the scissors-man If he had ever known Or met a queer old G.o.d who played On pipes much like his own.

He would not tell: and when I asked Who taught him how to play, He made that crooked tune again, And laughed and went away.

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING

THE GARDEN OF LIFE

G.o.d'S GARDEN

_The years are flowers and bloom within Eternity's wide garden; The rose for joy, the thorn for sin, The gardener G.o.d, to pardon All wilding growths, to prune, reclaim, And make them rose-like in His name._

RICHARD BURTON

"THE LORD G.o.d PLANTED A GARDEN"

The Lord G.o.d planted a garden In the first white days of the world, And He set there an angel warden In a garment of light enfurled.

So near to the peace of Heaven, That the hawk might nest with the wren, For there in the cool of the even G.o.d walked with the first of men.

And I dream that these garden-closes With their shade and their sun-flecked sod And their lilies and bowers of roses, Were laid by the hand of G.o.d.

The kiss of the sun for pardon, The song of the birds for mirth,-- One is nearer G.o.d's heart in a garden Than anywhere else on earth.

DOROTHY FRANCES GURNEY

THE LILIES

Ever the garden has a spiritual word: In the slow lapses of unnoticed time It drops from heaven, or upward learns to climb, Breathing an earthly sweetness, as a bird Is in the porches of the morning heard; So, in the garden, flower to flower will chime, And with the music thought and feeling rhyme, And the hushed soul is with new glory stirred.

Beauty is silent,--through the summer day Sleeps in her gold,--O wondrous sunlit gold, Frosting the lilies, virginal array!

Green, full-leaved walls the fragrant sculpture hold, Warm, orient blooms!--how motionless are they-- Speechless--the eternal loveliness untold!

GEORGE E. WOODBERRY

BARTER

Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be.

SARA TEASDALE

SONNET

Drop me the seed, that I, even in my brain, May be its nourishing earth. No mortal knows From what immortal granary comes the grain, Nor how the earth conspires to make the rose;

But from the dust and from the wetted mud Comes help, given or taken; so with me Deep in my brain the essence of my blood Shall give it stature until Beauty be.