WHAT wonder that I should be dreaming
Out here in the garden to-day?
The light through the leaves is streaming,—
Paulina cries, “Play!”
The birds to each other are calling,
The freshly-cut grasses smell sweet;
To Teddy’s dismay, comes falling
The ball at my feet.
“Your stroke should be over, not under!”
“But that’s such a difficult way!”
The place is a springtide wonder
Of lilac and may;
Of lilac, and may, and laburnum,
Of blossom,—We’er losing the set!
“Those volleys of Jenny’s,—return them;
“Stand close to the net!”
* * * * * *
You are so fond of the Maytime,
My friend, far away;
Small wonder that I should be dreaming
Of you in the garden to-day.
To E.
THE mountains in fantastic lines
Sweep, blue-white, to the sky, which shines
Blue as blue gems; athwart the pines
The lake gleams blue.
We three were here, three years gone by;
Our Poet, with fine-frenzied eye,
You, steeped in learned lore, and I,
A poet too.
Our Poet brought us books and flowers,
He read us Faust; he talked for hours
Philosophy (sad Schopenhauer’s),
Beneath the trees: