GARDEN ADVENTURES

DOWN the long garden path the message came, Borne by the breeze in a soft, wayward speed; “My petals spread, soft burns my blossom-flame, Yet do I know defeat and barren shame; Dost thou then fail me in my flower-need?” A lily-bell hung in her curving spire; Sweet peas on pools of morning air set sail; Womanly roses opened; did this fire, This wordless furthering of deep desire Waft from their midst down to the meadow-rail? Who took the message? Did the iris there, Masculine, bold, defy the grasses’ thralls. Mid the white lamps of daisies did one flare Concentrate light? Did a coarse mallow dare To think that it might answer to the call? Up the blue garden air a wingèd ship, Humming with hurry, takes its zig-zag way, Hangs for a second where the poppies’ tip Shoots to the hare-bells, larkspurs, but to slip Impatiently from honeyed bud and spray. Then ardent pansies warmer purple glow; Then poppies sigh for languor. Do they see The yellow tulip near them suddenly grow Quivering, tremulous? Does the tulip know What meadow-flower sent the pollen-bee?

In wooded depths the lilies grew, Nunlike in canopies of green. Hanging white bells of paladin In Gothic ferns beneath the yew— A sanctuary, with the dew Telling its beads by leafy screen. And where the dandelion ranks, Ranged Persian bright each blazing shield, Was far away in sedgy field— Too dense with spears of thistle hordes To menace distant lily chords, Or chapel treasure all unsealed; And all day nettle airships sail, And on the moonlight thistle swords Leap from their scabbards, flashing towards The priestly yew that guards the vale; Till haughty casquéd snowdrops quail, And violets rush borderwards. Alas! By stealth th’ invader came, Intrenched near lily convents, where A startled fragrance fills the air. Green cells are pierced by nettle spike, And dandelions, shield and pike Ravish white bells that rang to prayer!

Archippus, ambassador To the poppy emperor, Enters with his wings extended, Orange, black and samite blended, Bows o’er cups of columbines, And at taste of royal wines Flashes spangled semaphore Message—“To the end of the war.” Philemon, black, green and pearl Wavers to syringa whirl; Lightly shod, his errant feet Win the white pavilions sweet; As he flits to salvia cells, Dipping into ruby wells His antennae, as he goes Wig-wag—“Beauty has no foes.” Then bold Turnus, amber-fanned, Flutters to the brilliant band; He confers with larkspur sages, Loiters with the pansy pages, Tells his heraldry and crest To the rose’s burning breast; Soon doth Turnus flutter free, Wing-endorsing “Liberty.” Protoparce, grey and blunt, Enters on his stealthy hunt; Tongue protuding from his head, Heavy wings and brutal tread, Bulging eyes and savage thirst, Crime’s nocturnal deed he durst; See him prowling, full of schemes, Subtle midst the flower-dreams! Valiant tulips, trust no more! Close your helmets. This is war!

Ask me no questions. Fireflies last night Went over all the ground with searching light, And only found that, where the peony-head Hung erstwhile white, ’tis now disguised in red. Tell me not why. I only know that since I paused at gaze beneath the flowering quince, A group of tents, some warlike grey, some white Cover the ground, pitched in a single night. No explanation gives me peace of mind, When long battalioned caravans I find Crossing my garden walk; and when I see Under-ground trenches grow unceasingly. Give me no reasons for squat forms that pass Lurking at twilight near the ribbon grass. Only the owl and I our vigil keep, With, “Who goes there?” While flower kingdoms sleep.

Like a sea-flower, seen through waves of night, She spreads illumined petals, and her white Mystical raying disk spills frankincense From her stored sweet and balmy opulence. Perfume of honey-flowers and purpled vines, Odors of Eastern wood and Tuscan wines, Sweetness compressed, smell of all blossoms blent, Breath of all lilies in one lily’s scent. What secret doth she hold? What visions stir At the slow calm awakening of her? Lo! To the night is all her beauty spread, And to the encircling dark she leans her head. Then, who can tell what fragrant message strays O’er dreaming trees and sleeping, leafy ways? To what green tent her sighing languors steal? What thrilled suspense of waiting she doth feel? Till—Soft! A Spirit of dim-waving wings Floats from his moonlit forest wanderings, And by enchantment led, there plights his troth To the night’s Queen, a dew-crowned, milk-white Moth. Now, while the garden drowses, and the cool Of passing midnight deepens in the pool, While all the flowers hang their heads, asleep— Mysterious tryst two royal lovers keep. The world rolls on; its load of hearts grown old; And all the simple forms and feasts are cold. But though men mock Love’s slowly fading wraith, The Forest knows,—the flowers keep their Faith.