184 THE LOVER IN THE GARDEN 



THE FLOWER'S NAME 



HERE'S the garden she walked across, 



Arm in my arm, such a short while since : 

 Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss 



Hinders the hinges and makes them wince ! 

 She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, 



As back with that murmur the wicket swung ; 

 For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, 



To feed and forget it the leaves among. 



Down this side of the gravel-walk 



She went while her robe's edge brushed the box : 

 And here she paused in her gracious talk 



To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. 

 Roses, ranged in valiant row, 



I will never think that she passed you by ! 

 She loves you, noble roses, I know ; 



But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie ! 



This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, 



Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; 

 Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, 



Its soft meandering Spanish name : 

 What a name ! Was it love or praise ? 



Speech half-asleep or song half-awake ? 

 I must learn Spanish, one of these days, 



Only for that slow sweet name's sake. 



Roses, if I live and do well, 



I may bring her, one of these days, 

 To fix you fast with as fine a spell, 



Fit you each with his Spanish phrase ; 



