THE GARDEN
We owned a garden on a hill,
We planted rose and daffodil,
Flowers that English poets sing,
And hoped for glory in the Spring.
We planted yellow hollyhocks,
And humble sweetly-smelling stocks,
And columbine for carnival,
And dreamt of Summer's festival.
And Autumn not to be outdone
As heiress of the summer sun,
Should doubly wreathe her tawny head
With poppies and with creepers red.
We waited then for all to grow,
We planted wallflowers in a row.
And lavendar and borage blue,—
Alas! we waited, I and you,
But love was all that ever grew.
Long Barn
Summer, 1915
THE DANCING ELF*
I WOKE to daylight, and to find
A wreath of fading vine-leaves, rough entwined,
Lying, as dropped in hasty flight, upon my floor.
Dropped from thy head, sweet Spirit of the night,
Who cam'st, with footstep light,
Blown in by the soft breeze, as thistledown,
In through my open door.
Whence? From the woodland, from the fields of corn,
From flirting airily with the bright moon,
Playing throughout the hours that go too soon,
Ready to fly at the approach of morn,
Thou cam'st,
Bent on the curious quest
To see what mortal guest
Dwelt in the one-roomed cottage built to face the
dawn.
Thou didst pause
Shy, timid, on the threshold, though there laughed
The mischief in thy roguish eyes, then soft,
Thou crosst the room on tiptoe to my bed,
One finger on thy lip,
Cautious to make no slip,
—I saw the wreath of vine-leaves on thy head.