I have a rendezvous with Spring—she'll keep her word and so will I. I took a bulb, a small brown thing, and said, "'Tis here I bid you lie." A brick-red pot, some sandy soil. Now, little bulb, lie warm, I pray. A pleasant task—so little toil, all on a sweet, Autumnal day. Now let Jack Frost come back again and scatter snowflakes everywhere, and let him star the window pane with frosty breath—I will not care. For I've a precious rendezvous with one in green and gold attire and with another robed in blue—this thought sets all my heart afire. Some magic pots, bulbs buried deep, all in the sweet autumnal hours. My little bulbs now fall asleep, but soon they will bring forth spring flow'rs. With Spring I have a rendezvous, we'll meet upon my window-sill when in one pot are scillas blue and in the next, a daffodil!
TO EACH HIS GIFT
I am so glad to be awake. So glad to feel my pulses leap freed from the servitude of sleep. So glad a deep-drawn breath to take; O heart of mine, we are awake! Hear now the vow I wish to make. Before the coming of night's sable wing I will create at least one lovely thing in gratitude for life and for life's sake. O heart of mine, what shall we try to make? These hands, you say, are dull at fashioning. Then find them service, there is much to do; some task that destiny has planned for you. O heart of mine, the morning's praises sing. "This brain," you say, "cannot create a song, nor can it weave imagination's tale." Yet in your spoken vow, you need not fail—one lovely thing—the righting of some wrong. O heart of mine, I pray you keep me strong. "These hands," you say, "have not the power to make; nor has this brain the great creative gift." But two soft lips you have through which may drift a stream of beauty, thirsty souls to slake. O heart of mine, rejoice! We are awake.
IN AN APRIL GARDEN
There's the daffodil, the primrose, and the small forget-me-not; the ruddy, flaming, fragrant, rich, velvety wallflower; anemones and pansies, and aubrietia's purple plot; forsythia grows more golden with the passing of each hour. There's the yellow-blossomed berberis with promise of blue fruit; japonica the lovely, coral-tinted fragile stars. And a blackbird, with the sweetness of an ancient, mellow flute, is trilling thrilling quavers, and ecstatic little bars! But the glory of the garden is a stately, queenly tree, magnolia the beautiful, in robes of dazzling white. The sun into her goblets pours his golden ecstasy, and moonbeams turn them silver with their kisses in the night. Yea, lovely is the garden, beyond the power of words. But lovelier is the promise of the beauty yet to come. O sound the garden's praises, you happy, singing birds! For we, poor tongue-tied mortals, by such beauty are struck dumb.
THE QUIET HEART
Her heart is such a fragrant room, with daffodils and bright blue squills bedecking all the window-sills, defying entry to Sir Gloom—her heart is such a sunny room. Her heart has windows east and west, and windows south and north as well; and thus she always can foretell if one in need would be her guest—her heart has windows east and west. And through these shining window-panes, the eyes of little children peer. And those in quest of warmth and cheer, stand there until the daylight wanes—and bless her heart's bright window-panes. Her heart has such a charming door. The knocker shows the face of Love; forget-me-nots trail high above; one gentle knock, no need for more—then opens wide her heart's white door. Her heart is such a sunny room, and oh! she offers all such fare, they love to go and linger there, and touch the petals of each bloom within this fragrant, quiet room.
DREAM-STREET CRIES
In the land of dreams I heard him call upon a bright, warm summer's day. "All broken hearts, big breaks and small, will be repaired that come my way! Torn hearts to mend, torn hearts to mend," he cried while coming round the bend. "Torn hearts repaired, torn hearts repaired"—I stood quite still and stared and stared. And then he spoke and then I heard, "Good-day to you, give me your heart." "Indeed, I won't, you're quite absurd, how could I from my heart now part?" "Torn hearts to mend, torn hearts to mend——" "Oh, very well, here's mine, good friend." I gave him mine, almost in two; he made it look as good as new. And then I woke and heard quite clear, all down the street from end to end, the same old voice I yearly hear, "Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend."