JOHN RUSSELL HAYES

THE GARDEN IN AUGUST

From corn-crib by the level pasture-lands To knoll where spruce and boulders hide the road I know it like a book, and when my heart Is waste and dry and hard and choked with weeds, I come here till it gently blooms again.

For gardens yield rich fruits that will outlast The autumn and the winter of the soul, Richest to him who toils with loving hands.

'Tis delving thus we learn life's secrets told But to those favored few who dig for them.

The Garden is an intimate and keeps In touch with us, yet hath its own high moods, And doth impose them on the mind of man To shame his pettiness. So do I love Its shimmering August mood keyed to the sun, A harlequin of color, birds and bloom.

Nasturtiums, zinnias, balsams, salvias blaze By vivid dahlias; tiger-lilies burn In scarlet shadow of Jerusalem-cross; Beyond the queen-hydrangeas splendid rule Barbaric marigolds; chrysanthemums Outshine gladioli, and sunflowers flaunt Their crests of gold beneath the giant gourds.

Within the arbor, script forgot, I muse, While gorgeous hollyhocks sway to and fro To mark the silences, and b.u.t.terflies Flit in and out like some bright memory, And blinding poppies kindle slow watch-fires Before the golden altar of the sun.

A spell lies on the Garden. Summer sits With finger on her lips as if she heard The steps of Autumn echo on the hill.

A hush lies on the Garden. Summer dreams Of timid crocus thrust through drifted snow.

GERTRUDE HUNTINGTON MCGIFFERT

SUN, CARDINAL, AND CORN FLOWERS

Whence gets Earth her gold for thee, O Sunflower?

Her woven, yellow locks so fine Must go to make that gold of thine.

And whence thy red beside the stream, O Cardinal-flower?

She p.r.i.c.ks some vein lies near her heart That thy rich, ruddy hue may start.

And whence thy blue amid the corn, O Corn-flower?

Her deep-blue eyes gleam out in glee, The glories of her work to see.

HANNAH PARKER KIMBALL

SUNFLOWERS

My tall sunflowers love the sun, Love the burning August noons When the locust tunes its viol, And the cricket croons.

When the purple night draws on, With its planets hung on high, And the attared winds of slumber Wander down the sky,

Still my sunflowers love the sun, Keep their ward and watch and wait Till the rosy key of morning Opes the eastern gate.

Then, when they have deeply quaffed From the br.i.m.m.i.n.g cups of dew, You can hear their golden laughter All the garden through.

CLINTON SCOLLARD

THE END OF SUMMER

When poppies in the garden bleed, And coreopsis goes to seed, And pansies, blossoming past their prime, Grow small and smaller all the time, When on the mown field, shrunk and dry, Brown dock and purple thistle lie, And smoke from forest fires at noon Can make the sun appear the moon, When apple seeds, all white before, Begin to darken in the core, I know that summer, scarcely here, Is gone until another year.

EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

A LATE WALK

When I go up through the mowing field, The headless aftermath, Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, Half closes the garden path.

And when I come to the garden ground, The whir of sober birds Up from the tangle of the withered weeds Is sadder than any words.

A tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, Comes softly rustling down.

I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.

ROBERT FROST

COLOR NOTES

The brown of fallen leaves, The duller brown Of withered moss Stubble and bared sheaves, And pale light filtering down The fields across.

The gray of slender trees, The softer gray Of melting skies.

What sobering ecstasies One drinks on such a day With chastened eyes!

CHARLES WHARTON STORK

THE GOLDEN BOWL

I stand upon the broad and rounded summit Of a high hill In the full golden flood of an October day Nearing to twilight.

Below lie bouquets of woods, flat fields, White strings of roads winding like fairy tales into the distance, All steeped in sapphire mist like the blue bloom of grapes.

Nearby a scarlet creeper trails a fence, Nearer a hawthorn tree Drops its wee crimson apples into the lush green gra.s.s.

I stand with head thrown back, Seeing and breathing deep, My arms stretched out, in my two hands I hold a golden bowl.

Luscious fruits fulfil the yellow l.u.s.tre of its hollow sphere, Fruits like great gems, A pear of russet topaz, a ruby peach, A cl.u.s.ter of grapes-- Amethysts from the dewy cave of night-- A sapphire plum, a garnet apple, emerald nectarine, And on them lies a rose.

Oh, empty golden bowl I call my soul, Filled now with the precious fruits of life and time, Topped with the rosy spray of grace, A rose, As though dropped to me from the sky above, A crowning thing, Love, I lift and hold you out, An offering, And close my eyes.

MARY MCMILLAN

THE AUTUMN ROSE

A Ghostly visitant, pale Autumn Rose, Haunting my garden that you once loved well: Ah, how you queened it ere the sweet June's close, And blushed anew to hear the zephyrs tell Your loveliness was fairer than a dream!

But now your pride of beauty is all gone, And like some poor sad penitent you seem, Whose drooping head but hides a visage wan And wasted by the coldness of the world.

Upon your faint sweet breath is borne a sigh, Within your petals lies a tear impearled; I hear you to my garden say good-bye.

A sudden wind--the pale rose-petals blow Hither and yon--or are they flakes of snow?

ANTOINETTE DE COURSEY PATTERSON

INDIAN SUMMER