Loitering near you, how often I hear you, Just ere your petals at twilight are furled, Laugh through the gra.s.ses while Evelyn pa.s.ses, "There goes the loveliest flower in the world!"

ARTHUR GUITERMAN

A WHITE IRIS

Tall and clothed in samite, Chaste and pure, In smooth armor,-- Your head held high In its helmet Of silver: Jean D'Arc riding Among the sword blades!

Has Spring for you Wrought visions, As it did for her In a garden?

PAULINE B. BARRINGTON

MAY IS BUILDING HER HOUSE

May is building her house. With apple blooms She is roofing over the glimmering rooms; Of the oak and the beech hath she builded its beams, And, spinning all day at her secret looms, With arras of leaves each wind-swayed wall She pictureth over, and peopleth it all With echoes and dreams, And singing of streams.

May is building her house of petal and blade; Of the roots of the oak is the flooring made, With a carpet of mosses and lichen and clover, Each small miracle over and over, And tender, travelling green things strayed.

Her windows the morning and evening star, And her rustling doorways, ever ajar With the coming and going Of fair things blowing, The thresholds of the four winds are.

May is building her house. From the dust of things She is making the songs and the flowers and the wings; From October's tossed and trodden gold She is making the young year out of the old; Yea! out of winter's flying sleet She is making all the summer sweet, And the brown leaves spurned of November's feet She is changing back again to spring's.

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE

THE MAGNOLIA

Deep in the wood, of scent and song the daughter, Perfect and bright is the magnolia born; White as a flake of foam upon still water, White as soft fleece upon rough brambles torn.

Hers is a cup a workman might have fashioned Of Grecian marble in an age remote.

Hers is a beauty perfect and impa.s.sioned, As when a woman bares her rounded throat.

There is a tale of how the moon, her lover, Holds her enchanted by some magic spell; Something about a dove that broods above her, Or dies within her breast--I cannot tell.

I cannot say where I have heard the story, Upon what poet's lips; but this I know: Her heart is like a pearl's, or like the glory Of moonbeams frozen on the spotless snow.

JOSe SANTOS CHOCANO (_Translated by John Pierrepont Rice_)

"GO DOWN TO KEW IN LILAC-TIME"

Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!).

The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume, The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!) And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.

The Dorian nightingale is rare, and yet they say you'll hear him there At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo And golden-eyed _tu-whit_, _tu-whoo_ of owls that ogle London.

For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorussing for London:--

_Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)._

ALFRED NOYES

BEYOND

I wonder if the tides of Spring Will always bring me back again Mute rapture at the simple thing Of lilacs blowing in the rain.

If so, my heart will ever be Above all fear, for I shall know There is a greater mystery Beyond the time when lilacs blow.

THOMAS S. JONES, JR.

JUNE

I knew that you were coming, June, I knew that you were coming!

Among the alders by the stream I heard a partridge drumming; I heard a partridge drumming, June, a welcome with his wings, And felt a softness in the air half Summer's and half Spring's.

I knew that you were nearing, June, I knew that you were nearing-- I saw it in the bursting buds of roses in the clearing; The roses in the clearing, June, were blushing pink and red, For they had heard upon the hills the echo of your tread.

I knew that you were coming, June, I knew that you were coming, For ev'ry warbler in the wood a song of joy was humming.

I know that you are here, June, I know that you are here-- The fairy month, the merry month, the laughter of the year!

DOUGLAS MALLOCH

JUNE RAPTURE

Green! What a world of green! My startled soul Panting for beauty long denied, Leaps in a pa.s.sion of high grat.i.tude To meet the wild embraces of the wood; Rushes and flings itself upon the whole Mad miracle of green, with senses wide, Clings to the glory, hugs and holds it fast, As one who finds a long-lost love at last.

Billows of green that break upon the sight In bounteous crescendos of delight, Wind-hurried verdure hastening up the hills To where the sun its highest rapture spills; Cascades of color tumbling down the height In golden gushes of delicious light-- G.o.d! Can I bear the beauty of this day, Or shall I be swept utterly away?

Hush--here are deeps of green, where rapture stills, Sheathing itself in veils of amber dusk; Breathing a silence suffocating, sweet, Wherein a million hidden pulses beat.

Look! How the very air takes fire and thrills With hint of heaven pushing through her husk.

Ah, joy's not stopped! 'Tis only more intense, Here where Creation's ardors all condense; Here where I crush me to the radiant sod, Close-folded to the very nerves of G.o.d.

See now--I hold my heart against this tree.

The life that thrills its trembling leaves thrills me.

There's not a pleasure pulsing through its veins That does not sting me with ecstatic pains.

No twig or tracery, however fine, Can bear a tale of joy exceeding mine.

Praised be the G.o.ds that made my spirit mad; Kept me aflame and raw to beauty's touch.

Lashed me and scourged me with the whip of fate; Gave me so often agony for mate; Tore from my heart the things that make men glad-- Praised be the G.o.ds! If I at last, by such Relentless means may know the sacred bliss, The anguished rapture of an hour like this.

Smite me, O Life, and bruise me if thou must; Mock me and starve me with thy bitter crust, But keep me thus aquiver and awake, Enamoured of my life for living's sake!

_This were the tragedy_--that I should pa.s.s, Dull and indifferent through the glowing gra.s.s.

And this the reason I was born, I say-- That I might know the pa.s.sion of this day!

ANGELA MORGAN