| 1. The Garden | Poco sostenuto in A major |
| The laving tide of inarticulate air. | |
| Vivace in A major | |
| The iris people dance. | |
2. The Pool | Allegretto in A minor |
| Cool-hearted dim familiar of the doves. | |
3. The Birds | Presto in F major |
| I keep a frequent tryst. | |
| Presto meno assai | |
| The blossom-powdered orange-tree. | |
4. To The Moon | Allegro con brio in A major |
| Moon that shone on Babylon. |
TO MOZART
What junipers are these, inlaid With flame of the pomegranate tree? The god of gardens must have made This still unrumored place for thee To rest from immortality, And dream within the splendid shade Some more elusive symphony Than orchestra has ever played.
I In A major Poco sostenuto
The laving tide of inarticulate air Breaks here in flowers as the sea in foam, But with no satin lisp of failing wave: The odor-laden winds are very still. An unimagined music here exhales In upcurled petal, dreamy bud half-furled, And variations of thin vivid leaf: Symphonic beauty that some god forgot. If form could waken into lyric sound, This flock of irises like poising birds Would feel song at their slender feathered throats, And pour into a grey-winged aria Their wrinkled silver fingermarked with pearl; That flight of ivory roses high along The airy azure of the larkspur spires Would be a fugue to puzzle nightingales With too-evasive rapture, phrase on phrase. Where the hibiscus flares would cymbals clash, And the black cypress like a deep bassoon Would hum a clouded amber melody.
But all across the trudging ragged chords That are the tangled grasses in the heat, The mariposa lilies fluttering Like trills upon some archangelic flute, The roses and carnations and divine Small violets that voice the vanished god, There is a lure of passion-poignant tone Not flower-of-pomegranate—that finds the heart As stubborn oboes do—can breathe in air, Nor poppies, nor keen lime, nor orange-bloom.
What zone of wonder in the ardent dusk Of trees that yearn and cannot understand, Vibrates as to the golden shepherd horn That stirs some great adagio with its cry And will not let it rest? O tender trees, Your orchid, like a shepherdess of dreams, Calls home her whitest dream from following Elusive laughter of the unmindful god!
Vivace
The iris people dance Like any nimble faun: To rhythmic radiance They foot it in the dawn. They dance and have no need Of crystal-dripping flute Or chuckling river-reed,— Their music hovers mute. The dawn-lights flutter by All noiseless, but they know! Such children of the sky Can hear the darkness go. But does the morning play Whatever they demand— Or amber-barred bourrée Or silver saraband?