COLUMBINES

Late were we sleeping Deep in the mold, Clasping and keeping Yesterday's gold-- h.o.a.rdings of sunshine, Crimson and gold; Dreaming of light till our dream became Aureate bells and beakers of flame,-- Splashed with the splendor of wine of flame.

Raindrop awoke us; Zephyr bespoke us; Chick-a-dee called us, Bobolink called us,-- Then we came.

ARTHUR GUITERMAN

THE MORNING-GLORY

Was it worth while to paint so fair Thy every leaf--to vein with faultless art Each petal, taking the boon light and air Of summer so to heart?

To bring thy beauty unto perfect flower, Then, like a pa.s.sing fragrance or a smile, Vanish away, beyond recovery's power-- Was it, frail bloom, worth while?

Thy silence answers: "Life was mine!

And I, who pa.s.s without regret or grief, Have cared the more to make my moment fine, Because it was so brief.

"In its first radiance I have seen The sun!--why tarry then till comes the night?

I go my way, content that I have been Part of the morning light!"

FLORENCE EARLE COATES

THE BLOSSOMY BARROW

Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall, But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all.

Eet sure wonta be Teell flower an' tree An' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall.

You see, deesa 'Tonio always ees want'

To leeve on a farm, so he buy wan las' mont'.

I s'posa som' day eet be verra nice place, But shape dat he find eet een sure ees "deesgrace"; Eet's busta so bad he must feexin' eet all, An' firs' theeng he starta for build ees da wall.

Mysal' I go outa for see heem wan day, An' dere I am catcha heem sweatin' away; He's liftin' beeg stones from all parts of hees land An' takin' dem up to da wall een hees hand!

I say to heem: "Tony, why don'ta you gat Som' leetla wheel-barrow for halp you weeth dat?"

"O! com' an' I show you w'at's matter," he said, An' so we go look at hees tools een da shed.

Dere's fina beeg wheel-barrow dere on da floor, But w'at do you s'pose? From een under da door, Som' mornin'-glor' vines have creep eento da shed, An' beautiful flower, all purpla an' red, Smile out from da vina so pretty an' green Dat tweest round da wheel an' da sides da machine.

I look at dees Tony an' say to heem: "Wal?"

An' Tony he look back at me an' say: "Hal!

I no can bust up soocha beautiful theeng; I work weeth my han's eef eet tak' me teell spreeng!"

Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall, But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all.

Eet sure wonta be Teell flower an' tree An' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall.

T. A. DALY

LARKSPUR

Blue morning and the beloved, The hill-garden and I ...

Blue morning and the beloved, Leaning, laughing and plucking, Plucking wet roses ...

(She among the roses, I among the larkspur, Bob-white, warbler, meadowlark, bobolink, Song, sun, And still morning air.)

I snipped off a larkspur blossom of china-blue And held it, A blossom against the sky ...

And heaven opened out In one small flower-face ...

And the beloved, Plucking roses, plucking roses, old-fashioned roses, Lifted her face With eyes of china-blue.

(She among the roses, I among the larkspur, Bee-hum, brown-mole, downy chick, humming-bird: Light, dew, And laughter of my love.)

JAMES OPPENHEIM

THE JULY GARDEN

It's July in my garden; and steel-blue are the globe thistles And French grey the willows that bow to every breeze; And deep in every currant bush a robber blackbird whistles "I'm picking, I'm picking, I'm picking these!"

So off I go to rout them, and find instead I'm gazing At cl.u.s.ters of delphiniums--the seed was small and brown, But these are spurs that fell from heaven and caught the most amazing Colours of the welkin's own as they came hustling down.

And then some roses catch my eye, or may be some Sweet Williams Or pink and white and purple peals of Canterbury bells Or pencilled Violas that peep between the three-leaved trilliums Or red-hot pokers all aglow or poppies that cast spells--

And while I stare at each in turn I quite forget or pardon The blackbirds--and the blackguards--that keep robbing me of pie; For what do such things matter when I have so fair a garden And what is half so lovely as my garden in July?

ROBERT ERNEST VERNeDE

"MID-SUMMER BLOOMS WITHIN OUR QUIET GARDEN-WAYS"

Mid-summer blooms within our quiet garden-ways; A golden peac.o.c.k down the dusky alley strays; Gay flower petals strew --Pearl, emerald and blue-- The curving slopes of fragrant summer gra.s.s; The pools are clear as gla.s.s Between the white cups of the lily-flowers; The currants are like jewelled fairy-bowers; A dazzling insect worries the heart of a rose, Where a delicate fern a filmy shadow throws, And airy as bubbles the thousands of bees Over the young grape-cl.u.s.ters swarm as they please.

The air is pearly, iridescent, pure; These profound and radiant noons mature, Unfolding even as odorous roses of clear light; Familiar roads to distances invite Like slow and graceful gestures, one by one Bound for the pearly-hued horizon and the sun.

Surely the summer clothes, with all her arts, No other garden with such grace and power; And 'tis the poignant joy close-folded in our hearts That cries its life aloud from every flaming flower.

EMILE VERHAEREN

POPPIES

O perfect flowers of sweet midsummer days, The season's emblems ye, As nodding lazily Ye kiss to sleep each breeze that near you strays, And soothe the tired gazer's sense With lulling surges of your softest somnolence.

Like fairy lamps ye light the garden bed With tender ruby glow.

Not any flowers that blow Can match the glory of your gleaming red; Such sunny-warm and dreamy hue Before ye lit your fires no garden ever knew.

Bright are the blossoms of the scarlet sage, And bright the velvet vest On the nasturtium's breast; Bright are the tulips when they reddest rage, And bright the coreopsis' eye;-- But none of all can with your brilliant beauty vie.

O soft and slumberous flowers, we love you well; Your glorious crimson tide The mossy walk beside Holds all the garden in its drowsy spell; And walking there we gladly bless Your queenly grace and all your languorous loveliness.