(_The Garden Rose speaks._)
The garden path runs east,
And the garden path runs west;
There’s a tree by the garden gate,
And a little bird in a nest.
It sings and sings and sings!
Does the bird, I wonder, know
How, over the garden wall,
The bright days come and go?
The garden path runs north,
And the garden path runs south;
The brown bee hums in the sun,
And kisses the lily’s mouth;
But it flies away, away,
To the birch-tree, dark and tall.
What do you find, O brown bee,
Over the garden wall?
With ruff and farthingale,
Under the gardener’s eye,
In trimmest guise I stand—
Oh, who so fine as I?
But even the light wind knows
That it may not play with me,
Nor touch my beautiful lips
With a wild caress and free.
Oh, straight is the garden path,
And smooth is the garden bed,
Where never an idle weed
Dares lift its careless head.
But I know outside the wall
They gather, a merry throng;
They dance and flutter and sing,
And I listen all day long.
The Brier Rose swings outside;
Sometimes she climbs so high
I can see her sweet pink face
Against the blue of the sky.
What wonder that she is fair,
Whom no strait bonds enthrall?
Oh, rare is life to the Brier Rose,
Outside of the garden wall!