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!
THE DOVES AT MENDON
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, Calling the doves at Mendon!
Under the vine-clad porch she stands, A gentle maiden with willing hands, Dropping the grains of yellow corn. Low and soft, like a mellow horn, While the sunshine over her falls, Over and over she calls and calls “Coo! coo! coo!” to the doves— The happy doves at Mendon.
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, Calling the doves at Mendon!
Down they flutter with timid grace, Lured by the voice and the tender face, Till the evening air is all astir With the happy strife and the eager whir. One by one, and two by two, And then a rush through the ether blue; While Arné scatters the yellow corn For the gentle doves at Mendon.
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, Calling the doves at Mendon!
They hop on the porch where the baby sits, They come and go as a shadow flits, Now here, now there, while in and out They crowd and jostle each other about; Till one, grown bolder than all the rest— A snow-white dove with an arching breast— Softly lights on her outstretched hand Under the vines at Mendon.
“Coo! coo! coo!” says Arné, Calling the doves at Mendon!