On a small brown neck
A long gold chain
To match new earrings!
BOUNCING BET.
Sauntering narrow lanes
Led by the weather vanes
See beneath narrow panes
Nantucket gardens
Where little fruit trees lean
On old walls grey and green
Dappling ivies screen
Nantucket Gardens.
All that is best and fair
Like old scent lingers there
Shrubs, herbs and ramblers share
The sweet disorders;
Tall tapered holly hocks
Foxglove and purple phlox
Demure mints, frilly stocks
Spike the box borders.
Yet—past the rose hung doors
Called by the tangled moors
Bouncing Bet left them.
On new strange roadways bound
Was the career she found
When she bereft them.
Ragged pink wilful thing—
You had to have your fling
With weeds to roister
You could not breathe the air
Of mignonette, nor care
For sweet peas cloister.
Only, these have a name
Theirs is the garden fame
They are traditioned;
Out on the dusty ways
Bouncing Bet weary strays
Quite ill-conditioned.
Yet I have heard the cry
Go up from passers-by,
Young, therefore tragic
Escaped—the little word
To them is not absurd
They know its magic!
Therefore dear Bouncing Bet
You may have honor yet
Yours may be winning
But in your saucy pride
Though you would not abide
Gates, gardens, walls, beside;
Were your beginning.