What shall we be like when We cast this earthly body and attain To immortality?

What shall we be like then?

Ah, who shall say What vast expansions shall be ours that day?

What transformations of this house of clay, To fit the heavenly mansions and the light of day?

Ah, who shall say?

But this we know,-- We drop a seed into the ground, A tiny, shapeless thing, shrivelled and dry, And, in the fulness of its time, is seen A form of peerless beauty, robed and crowned Beyond the pride of any earthly queen, Instinct with loveliness, and sweet and rare, The perfect emblem of its Maker's care.

This from a shrivelled seed?-- --Then may man hope indeed!

For man is but the seed of what he shall be, When, in the fulness of his perfecting, He drops the husk and cleaves his upward way, Through earth's r.e.t.a.r.dings and the clinging clay, Into the sunshine of G.o.d's perfect day.

No fetters then! No bonds of time or s.p.a.ce!

But powers as ample as the boundless grace That suffered man, and death, and yet, in tenderness, Set wide the door, and pa.s.sed Himself before-- As He had promised--to prepare a place.

Yea, we may hope!

For we are seeds, Dropped into earth for heavenly blossoming.

Perchance, when comes the time of harvesting, His loving care May find some use for even a humble tare.

We know not what we shall be--only this-- That we shall be made like Him--as He is.

JOHN OXENHAM

"LORD, I ASK A GARDEN"

Lord, I ask a garden in a quiet spot where there may be a brook with a good flow, an humble little house covered with bell-flowers and a wife and a son who shall resemble Thee.

I should wish to live many years, free from hates, and make my verses, as the rivers that moisten the earth, fresh and pure.

Lord, give me a path with trees and birds.

I wish that you would never take my mother, for I should wish to tend her as a child and put her to sleep with kisses, when somewhat old she may need the sun.

R. AREVALO MARTINEZ

MY FLOWER-ROOM

My flower-room is such a little place, Scarce twenty feet by nine, yet in that s.p.a.ce I have met G.o.d; yea, many a radiant hour Have talked with Him, the All-Embracing Cause, About His laws.

And he has shown me, in each vine and flower, Such miracles of power That day by day this flower-room of mine Has come to be a shrine.

Fed by the self-same soil and atmosphere, Pale, tender shoots appear, Rising to greet the light in that sweet room.

One speeds to crimson bloom, One slowly creeps to una.s.suming grace, One climbs, one trails, One drinks the light and moisture, One exhales.

Up through the earth together, stem by stem, Two plants push swiftly in a floral race, Till one sends forth a blossom like a gem, And one gives only fragrance.

In a seed, So small it scarce is felt within the hand, Lie hidden such delights Of scents and sights, When by the elements of Nature freed, As paradise must have at its command.

From shapeless roots and ugly bulbous things, What gorgeous beauty springs!

Such infinite variety appears, A hundred artists in a hundred years Could never copy from a floral world The marvels that in leaf and bud lie curled.

Nor could the most colossal mind of man Create one little seed of plant or vine Without a.s.sistance from the First Great Plan, Without the aid divine.

Who but a G.o.d Could draw from light and moisture, heat and cold, And fashion in earth's mold, A mult.i.tude of blooms to deck one sod?

Who but a G.o.d?

Not one man knows Just why the bloom and fragrance of the rose, Or how its tints were blent; Or why the white camellia, without scent, Up through the same soil grows; Or how the daisy and the violet And blades of gra.s.s first on wild meadows met.

Not one, not one man knows, The wisest but suppose.

This flower-room of mine Has come to be a shrine, And I go hence Each day with larger faith and reverence.

ELLA WHEELER WILc.o.x

"VESTURED AND VEILED WITH TWILIGHT"

Vestured and veiled with twilight, Lulled in the winter's ease, Dim, and happy, and silent, My garden dreams by its trees.

Urn of the sprayless fountain, Glimmering nymph and faun, Gleam through the dark-plumed cedar, Fade on the dusky lawn.

Here is no stir of summer, Here is no pulse of spring; Never a bud to burgeon, Never a bird to sing.

Dreams--and the kingdom of quiet!

Only the dead leaves lie Over the fallen roses Under the shrouded sky.

Folded and fenced with silence Mindless of moil and mart, It is twilight here in my garden, And twilight here in my heart.

ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON

THE FRUIT GARDEN PATH

The path runs straight between the flowering rows, A moonlit path hemmed in by beds of bloom, Where phlox and marigolds dispute for room With tall, red dahlias and the briar rose.

'Tis reckless prodigality which throws Into the night these wafts of rich perfume Which sweep across the garden like a plume.

Over the trees a single bright star glows.

Dear garden of my childhood, here my years Have run away like little grains of sand; The moments of my life, its hopes and fears Have all found utterance here, where now I stand; My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears, You are my home, do you not understand?

AMY LOWELL

WOOD SONG

I heard a woodthrush in the dusk Twirl three notes and make a star-- My heart that walked with bitterness Came back from very far.

Three shining notes were all he had, And yet they made a starry call-- I caught life back against my breast And kissed it, scars and all.

SARA TEASDALE

A PRAYER

Teach me, Father, how to go Softly as the gra.s.ses grow; Hush my soul to meet the shock Of the wild world as a rock; But my spirit, propt with power, Make as simple as a flower.

Let the dry heart fill its cup, Like a poppy looking up; Let life lightly wear her crown, Like a poppy looking down, When its heart is filled with dew And its life begins anew.