Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?
Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappointed way,
Er hang his head in silence, and sorrow all the day?
Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?--Does he walk, er does he run?
Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've allus done?
Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice?
Ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice?
Then let us, one and all, be contented with our lot;
The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot.
Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,
And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!
Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,
Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;
Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,
And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
GRACE FOR GARDENS
Lord God in Paradise,
Look upon our sowing,
Bless the little gardens
And the good green growing!
Give us sun,
Give us rain,
Bless the orchards
And the grain!
Lord God in Paradise,
Please bless the beans and peas,
Give us corn full on the ear--
We will praise Thee, Lord, for these!
Bless the blossom
And the root,
Bless the seed
And the fruit!
Lord God in Paradise,
Over my brown field is seen,
Trembling and adventuring.
A miracle of green.
Send such grace
As you know,
To keep it safe
And make it grow!
Lord God in Paradise,
For the wonder of the seed,
Wondering, we praise you, while
We tell you of our need.
Look down from Paradise,
Look upon our sowing,
Bless the little gardens
And the good green growing!
Give us sun,
Give us rain,
Bless the orchards
And the grain!
LOUISE DRISCOLL
SILVER BELLS AND COCKLE SHELLS
PLANTING
_The sky is blue and soft to-day,
The grass is green this month of May,
And Muvver with her spade and rake
My little garden helps me make;
For every one must plant more seeds
To grow the food that each one needs:
Potatoes, corn, green peas, and beets,
The kind of beans that sister eats,
We plant in rows marked by a string,
For neatness is the one great thing;
The earth is then raked smooth and pressed
And Nature 'tends to all the rest._
ROBERT LIVINGSTON
SPRING PATCHWORK
If I could patch a coverlet
From pieces of the Spring,
What dreams a happy child would have
Beneath so fair a thing!
A center of the dear blue sky,
A bordering of green,
With patches of the yellow sun
All chequered in between.
Bright ribbons of the silky grass
Laced prettily across,
With satin of new little leaves,
And velvet of the moss.
In every corner, violets,
Half-hidden from the view,
With many-flowered squares betwixt,
Of pinky tints and blue;
Of flossy silk and gossamer,
Of tissue and brocade;
A warp of rosy morning mist,
A woof of purple shade.
Embroideries of little vines,
And spider-webs of lace,
With tassels of the alder tied
At each convenient place.
With gold-thread I would sew the seams,
And needles of the pine,
Oh, never child in all the world
Would have a quilt like mine!
ABBIE FARWELL BROWN
BABY'S VALENTINE
Valentine, O Valentine,
Pretty little Love of mine;
Little Love whose yellow hair
Makes the daffodils despair;
Little Love whose shining eyes
Fill the stars with sad surprise:
Hither turn your ten wee toes,
Each a tiny shut-up rose,
End most fitting and complete
For the rosy-pinky feet;
Toddle, toddle here to me,
For I'm waiting, do you see?--
Waiting for to call you mine,
Valentine, O Valentine!
Valentine, O Valentine,
I will dress you up so fine!
Here's a frock of tulip-leaves,
Trimmed with lace the spider weaves;
Here's a cap of larkspur blue,
Just precisely made for you;
Here's a mantle scarlet-dyed,
Once the tiger-lily's pride,
Spotted all with velvet black
Like the fire-beetle's back;
Lady-slippers on your feet,
Now behold you all complete!
Come and let me call you mine,
Valentine, O Valentine!
Valentine, O Valentine,
Now a wreath for you I'll twine.
I will set you on a throne
Where the damask rose has blown,
Dropping all her velvet bloom,
Carpeting your leafy room:
Here while you shall sit in pride,
Butterflies all rainbow-pied,
Dandy beetles gold and green,
Creeping, flying, shall be seen,
Every bird that shakes his wings,
Every katydid that sings,
Wasp and bee with buzz and hum.
Hither, hither see them come,
Creeping all before your feet,
Rendering their homage meet.
But 'tis I that call you mine,
Valentine, O Valentine!
LAURA E. RICHARDS
BABY SEED SONG
Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,
Are you awake in the dark?
Here we lie cosily, close to each other:
Hark to the song of the lark--
"Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you;
Put on your green coats and gay,
Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you--
Waken! 'tis morning--'tis May!"
Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,
What kind of flower will you be?
I'll be a poppy--all white, like my mother;
Do be a poppy like me.
What! you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss you
When you're grown golden and high!
But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you;
Little brown brother, good-bye.
E. NESBIT
RAIN IN THE NIGHT
Raining, raining,
All night long;
Sometimes loud, sometimes soft,
Just like a song.
There'll be rivers in the gutters
And lakes along the street.
It will make our lazy kitty
Wash his little dirty feet.
The roses will wear diamonds
Like kings and queens at court;
But the pansies all get muddy
Because they are so short.
I'll sail my boat to-morrow
In wonderful new places,
But first I'll take my watering-pot
And wash the pansies' faces.
AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR
A LITTLE GIRL'S SONGS
I
SPRING SONG
I love daffodils.
I love Narcissus when he bends his head.
I can hardly keep March and spring and Sunday and daffodils
Out of my rhyme of song.
Do you know anything about the spring
When it comes again?
God knows about it while winter is lasting:
Flowers bring him power in the spring,
And birds bring it, and children.
He is sometimes sad and alone
Up there in the sky trying to keep his worlds happy.
I bring him songs when he is in his sadness, and weary.
I tell him how I used to wander out to study stars and the moon he
made
And flowers in the dark of the wood.
I keep reminding him about his flowers he has forgotten,
And that snowdrops are up.
What can I say to make him listen?
"God," I say,
"Don't you care!
Nobody must be sad or sorry
In the spring-time of flowers."
II
VELVETS
_By a Bed of Pansies_
This pansy has a thinking face
Like the yellow moon.
This one has a face with white blots:
I call him the clown.
Here goes one down the grass
With a pretty look of plumpness:
She is a little girl going to school
With her hands in the pockets of her pinafore.
Her name is Sue.
I like this one, in a bonnet,
Waiting--
Her eyes are so deep!
But these on the other side,
These that wear purple and blue,
They are the Velvets,
The king with his cloak,
The queen with her gown,
The prince with his feather.
These are dark and quiet
And stay alone.
_I know you, Velvets
Color of Dark,
Like the pine-tree on the hill
When stars shine!_
HILDA CONKLING
(_Six years old_)
WHEN SWALLOWS BUILD
When apple-blossom time doth come
And with their scent the air is filled,
And fields are full of buttercups,--
'Tis then the swallows build.
And when the rippling brooks are deep,
Filled to the overflowing,
When o'er the hills and meadows fair
The south wind's softly blowing,
With sun a-shining, birds a-singing
Till their joyous throats are thrilled,
And with all the world in laughter,--
'Tis then the swallows build.
CATHERINE PARMENTER
(_Eleven years old_)
SPRING PLANTING
"What shall we plant for our Summer, my boy,--
Seeds of enchantment and seedlings of joy?
Brave little cuttings of laughter and light?
Then shall our summer be flowery and bright."
"Nay!--You are wrong in your planting," said he,
"Have we not grass and the weeds and a tree?
Why should we water and weary away
For sake of a flower that lives but a day!"
So she made gardens which he would not dig,
Tended her apricot, apple and fig.
Then, when one morning he chanced to appear,
Sadly he noticed--"No trespassing here."
HELEN HAY WHITNEY
IF I COULD DIG LIKE A RABBIT
If I could dig holes in the ground like a rabbit,
D'you know what I'd do?
Well, I'd dig a deep hole--
Right under that tree--
Then I'd go down--and down,
And find out where the tree starts,
And I'd find out how it eats and drinks,
And what makes it grow....
Yes I would!
P'r'aps I could dig a hole right up into that tree,
And--see--it--grow!...
But p'r'aps I couldn't.
Anyway I could dig 'way down,
And see all the flower seeds,
And all the grass seeds,
And under that big rock there might be some rock seeds.
And I'd see everything start growing.
Do all the seeds make noises
When they start to grow?
What do You s'pose about that?
I s'pose they sing,
'Cause they're so glad to come up here and see the sunshine....
Well, anyway I'd find out all about it, 'way down there,
And then I'd want to come up home,
And I'd have so much to tell to You!
If I could dig holes like a rabbit,
That's just what I would do.
ROSE STRONG HUBBELL
THE LITTLE GOD
Mother says there's a little god
Lives in my garden.
I asked her--"In the tree?"--
I asked her--"In the fountain?"
And she said, yes, that she,
Plain as plain could be,
Everywhere could see
The little god.
"What's he look like, mother?"
"Oh," she said, "like the flowers,
Like the summer showers,
Like the morning dew,--
Like you."
She says he's everywhere
In my garden--I can't see him there.
KATHARINE HOWARD
DAISIES
At evening when I go to bed
I see the stars shine overhead;
They are the little daisies white
That dot the meadow of the Night.
And often while I'm dreaming so,
Across the sky the Moon will go;
It is a lady, sweet and fair,
Who comes to gather daisies there.
For, when at morning I arise,
There's not a star left in the skies;
She's picked them all and dropped them down
Into the meadows of the town.
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN
THE ANXIOUS FARMER
It was awful long ago
That I put those seeds around;
And I guess I ought to know
When I stuck 'em in the ground.
'Cause I noted down the day
In a little diary book,--
It's gotten losted somewhere and
I don't know where to look.
But I'm certain anyhow
They've been planted most a week
And it must be time by now
For their little sprouts to peek.
They've been watered every day
With a very speshul care,
And once or twice I've dug 'em up to
see if they were there.
I fixed the dirt in humps
Just the way they said I should;
And I crumbled all the lumps
Just as finely as I could.
And I found a nangle-worm
A-poking up his head,--
He maybe feeds on seeds and such,
and so I squushed him dead.
A seed's so very small,
And dirt all looks the same;--
How can they know at all
The way they ought to aim?
And so I'm waiting round
In case of any need;
A farmer ought to do his best for
every single seed!
BURGES JOHNSON
OVER THE GARDEN WALL
By the side of a wall in a garden gay,
A little Rose-bush grew;
In the first dear days of the month of May,
Loved by the sun and dew.
It gazed to the top of the wall so high
With happy longing and pride,
When it heard the children laugh and cry
As they passed on the other side.
And into its leaves and buds there came
A beautiful thought of God.
"I can climb to the heights of love and fame,
If my roots are in the sod."
Then up and over the garden-wall,
It clambered far and wide,
Shedding its sweetness for one and all
As they passed on the other side,--
The weary laborer, the beggar cold,
The wise man and the fool,
The mother and daughter, the grandam old
And the children going to school.
The breezes scattered its pink and white
In a perfumed shower for all,
And the beautiful days of June were bright
With the Rose on the Garden-wall.
Our hearts are like the Roses of June,
They can live for one and all,
Giving their love as a blessed boon,
From a palace or cottage wall.
EMILY SELINGER
THE FLOWERPHONE
See the morning-glories hung
On the vine for me to use:
Hark! A flower-bell has rung,
I can talk now, if I choose.
"Hellow Central! Oh, hello!
Give me Puck of Fairyland--
Mr. Puck, I want to know
What I cannot understand.
"How the leaves are scalloped out;
Where's the den of Dragon Fly?
What do crickets chirp about?
Where do flowers go when they die?
"How far can a Fairy see?
Why are woodsy things afraid?
Who lives in the hollow tree?
How are cobweb carpets made?
"Why do Fairies hide?--Hello!
What? I cannot understand--"
That's the way they always do,
They've cut me off from Fairyland!
ABBIE FARWELL BROWN
THE FAITHLESS FLOWERS
I went this morning down to where the Johnny-Jump-Ups grow
Like naughty purple faces nodding in a row.
I stayed 'most all the morning there--I sat down on a stump
And watched and watched and watched them--and they never gave a jump!
And Golden-Glow that stands up tall and yellow by the fence,
It doesn't glow a single bit--it's only just pretence--
I ran down after tea last night to watch them in the dark--
I had to light a match to see; they didn't give a spark!
And then the Bouncing Bets don't bounce--I tried them yesterday,
I picked a big pink bunch down in the meadow where they stay,
I took a piece of string I had and tied them in a ball,
And threw them down as hard as hard--they never bounced at all!
And tiger-lilies may look fierce, to meet them all alone,
All tall and black and yellowy and nodding by a stone,
But they're no more like tigers than the dogwood's like a dog,
Or bulrushes are like a bull or toadwort like a frog!
I like the flowers very much--they're pleasant as can be
For bunches on the table, and to pick and wear and see,
But still it doesn't seem quite fair--it does seem very queer--
They don't do what they're named for--not at any time of year!
MARGARET WIDDEMER
THE FLOWER-SCHOOL
When storm clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down,
The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes
among the bamboos.
Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where,
and dance upon the grass in wild glee.
Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.
They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come out to
play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner.
When the rains come down they have their holidays.
Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in the wild
wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the flower children
rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.
Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars are.
Haven't you seen how eager they are to get there? Don't you know why
they are in such a hurry?
Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms: they have their
mother as I have my own.
RABINDRANATH TAGORE
IRIS FLOWERS
My mother let me go with her,
(I had been good all day),
To see the iris flowers that bloom
In gardens far away.
We walked and walked through hedges green,
Through rice-fields empty still,
To where we saw a garden gate
Beneath the farthest hill.
She pointed out the rows of "flowers";--
I saw no planted things,
But white and purple butterflies
Tied down with silken strings.
They strained and fluttered in the breeze,
So eager to be free;
I begged the man to let them go,
But mother laughed at me.
She said that they could never rise,
Like birds, to heaven so blue.
But even mothers do not know
Some things that children do.
That night, the flowers untied themselves
And softly stole away,
To fly in sunshine round my dreams
Until the break of day.
MARY MCNEIL FENOLLOSA
IF I WERE A FAIRY
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 bumble-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 grasses 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 god
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 god 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
GOD'S GARDEN
_The years are flowers and bloom within
Eternity's wide garden;
The rose for joy, the thorn for sin,
The gardener God, to pardon
All wilding growths, to prune, reclaim,
And make them rose-like in His name._
RICHARD BURTON
"THE LORD GOD PLANTED A GARDEN"
The Lord God 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
God 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 God.
The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth,--
One is nearer God'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.
It will look down, even as the burning flower
Smiles upon June, long after I am gone.
Dust-footed Time will never tell its hour,
Through dusty Time its rose will draw men on,
Through dusty Time its beauty shall make plain
Man, and, Without, a spirit scattering grain.
JOHN MASEFIELD
THE TILLING
The dull ox, Sorrow, treads my heart,
Dragging the harrow, Pain,
And turning the old year's tillage
Under the sod again.
So, well do I know the Tiller
Will bring once more the grain;
For grief comes never to the strong--
Nor dull despair's benumbing wrong--
But from them spring a hidden throng
Of seeds, for new life fain.
So heavily do I let the hoofs
Trample the deeps of me;
For only thus is spirit
Brought to fecundity.
But when the ox is stabled
And the harrow set aside,
With calm I watch a new world grow,
Sweetly green, up out of woe,
And, glad of the Tiller, then I know
He too is satisfied.
CALE YOUNG RICE
SAFE
Now shall your beauty never fade;
For it was budding when you passed
Beyond this glare, into the shade
Of fairer gardens unforecast,
Where, by the dreaded Gardener's spade,
Beauty, transplanted once, shall ever last.
Now never shall that glorious breast
Wither, those deft hands lose their art,
Nor those glad shoulders be oppressed
By failing breath or fluttering heart,
Nor, from the cheek by dawn possessed,
The subtle ecstasy of hue depart.
Forever shall you be your best,--
Nay, far more luminously shine
Than when our comradeship was blessed
By what on earth seemed most divine,
Before your body passed to rest
With what I then supposed this heart of mine.
Now shall your bud of beauty blow
Far lovelier than I knew before
When, such a little time ago,
I looked upon your face, and swore
That Helen's never moved men so
When her white, magic hands enkindled war.
As you sweep on from power to power
Shall every earthward thought you think
Irradiate my lonely hour
Till I shall taste the golden drink
Of Life, and see the full-blown flower,
Whose opening bud was mine, beyond the brink.
ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER
SORROW IN A GARDEN
Here in this ancient garden
When Winter days had flown
I came, with Comrade Sorrow
To dwell with her alone.
Here in this sweet seclusion
Far from the World's cold stare
What exquisite communings
Sorrow and I would share!
What banquets of remembrance!
What luxury of tears!
With Sorrow in a garden
Through the rose-scented years!
But one day when she called me
I did not hear her voice;
I only heard the lilies
Which sang "Rejoice, rejoice!"
The world was gold and azure
The air was sweet with birds;
My garden laughed with rapture
How could I hear her words?
For June was in the garden
And June was in my heart,
And since that hour pale Sorrow
And I have dwelt apart.
But often in the twilight
When birds and gardens sleep
I feel her presence with me
Her arms about me creep.
And when the ghosts of Summer
With the dead roses talk,
I hear her softly sobbing
Along the moonlit walk.
I never can forget her
So intimate were we!
But Sorrow, in my garden
Abides no more with me.
MAY RILEY SMITH
MOTH-FLOWERS
The pale moth
Trembles in the white moonlight;
Thus my heart trembles with love!
The rose petals fall--
The red petals of my heart;
Oh, the breath of love!
Cool, sweet tears
Of honey, the jasmine weeps;
Burning fall the tears of love.
Oh, how bitter
Is the White Poppy, Death;
There are no more dreams of love.
JEANNE ROBERT FOSTER
ALCHEMY
I lift my heart as spring lifts up
A yellow daisy to the rain;
My heart will be a lovely cup
Altho' it holds but pain.
For I shall learn from flower and leaf
That color every drop they hold,
To change the lifeless wine of grief
To living gold.
SARA TEASDALE
FLOWERS IN THE DARK
Late in the evening, when the room had grown
Too hot and tiresome with its flaring light
And noisy voices, I stole out alone
Into the darkness of the summer night.
Down the long garden-walk I slowly went,
A little wind was stirring in the trees;
I only saw the whitest of the flowers,
And I was sorry that the earlier hours
Of that fair evening had been so ill spent,
Because I said, "I am content with these
Dear friends of mine who only speak to me
With their delicious fragrance, and who tell
To me their gracious welcome silently."
The leaves that touch my hand with dew are wet;
I find the tall white lilies I love well.
I linger as I pass the mignonette,
And what surprise could clearer be than this:
To find my sweet rose waiting with a kiss!
SARAH ORNE JEWETT
WELCOME