Blue morning and the beloved,
Leaning, laughing and plucking,
Plucking wet roses ...
(She among the roses,
I among the larkspur,
Bob-white, warbler, meadowlark, bobolink,
Song, sun,
And still morning air.)
I snipped off a larkspur blossom of china-blue
And held it,
A blossom against the sky ...
And heaven opened out
In one small flower-face ...
And the beloved,
Plucking roses, plucking roses, old-fashioned roses,
Lifted her face
With eyes of china-blue.
(She among the roses,
I among the larkspur,
Bee-hum, brown-mole, downy chick, humming-bird:
Light, dew,
And laughter of my love.)
James Oppenheim
THE JULY GARDEN
It's July in my garden; and steel-blue are the globe thistles
And French grey the willows that bow to every breeze;
And deep in every currant bush a robber blackbird whistles
"I'm picking, I'm picking, I'm picking these!"
So off I go to rout them, and find instead I'm gazing
At clusters of delphiniums—the seed was small and brown,
But these are spurs that fell from heaven and caught the most amazing
Colours of the welkin's own as they came hustling down.