IN THE GARDEN 139 



. . . Here's flowers for you ; 

 Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram ; 

 The marigold, that goes to bed with th' sun, 

 And with him rises weeping ; these are flowers 

 Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given 

 To men of middle age. You are very welcome. 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEAEE. 



IN THE GARDEN 



SUMMER is dying, slowly dying 



She fades with every passing day ; 

 In the garden alleys she wanders, sighing, 



And pauses to grieve at the sad decay. 



The flowers that came with the spring's first swallow, 

 When March crept timidly over the hill, 



And slept at noon in the sunny hollow 

 The snowdrop, the crocus, the daffodil, 



The lily, white for an angel to carry, 

 The violet, faint with its spirit-breath, 



The passion-flower, and the fleeting, airy 

 Anemone all have been struck by death. 



Autumn the leaves is staining and strewing, 

 And spreading a veil o'er the landscape rare ; 



The glory and gladness of summer are going, 

 And a feeliii"; of sadness is in the air. 



