BOUNCING BET.

Sauntering narrow lanes Led by the weather vanes See beneath narrow panes Nantucket gardens Where little fruit trees lean On old walls grey and green Dappling ivies screen Nantucket Gardens. All that is best and fair Like old scent lingers there Shrubs, herbs and ramblers share The sweet disorders; Tall tapered holly hocks Foxglove and purple phlox Demure mints, frilly stocks Spike the box borders. Yet—past the rose hung doors Called by the tangled moors Bouncing Bet left them. On new strange roadways bound Was the career she found When she bereft them. Ragged pink wilful thing— You had to have your fling With weeds to roister You could not breathe the air Of mignonette, nor care For sweet peas cloister. Only, these have a name Theirs is the garden fame They are traditioned; Out on the dusty ways Bouncing Bet weary strays Quite ill-conditioned. Yet I have heard the cry Go up from passers-by, Young, therefore tragic Escaped—the little word To them is not absurd They know its magic! Therefore dear Bouncing Bet You may have honor yet Yours may be winning But in your saucy pride Though you would not abide Gates, gardens, walls, beside; Were your beginning.