212 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 



I read of gardens in old times, 



Old stately gardens, kingly, 

 Where people walked in gorgeous crowds, 



Or, for silent musing, singly. 



I raised up visions in my brain, 



The noblest and the fairest ; 

 But still I loved my garden best, 



And thought it far the rarest. 



And all amongst my flowers I walked, 

 Like a miser 'midst his treasure ; 



For that pleasant plot of garden ground 

 Was a world of endless pleasure. 



MARY Ho WITT. 



TALKING IN THEIR SLEEP 



" You think I am dead," 



The apple-tree said, 

 " Because I have never a leaf to show ; 



Because I stoop, 



And my branches droop, 

 And the dull grey mosses over me grow. 

 But I'm all alive in trunk and shoot ; 



The buds of next May 



I fold away 

 But I pity the withered grass at my root. 



" You think I am dead," 

 The quick grass said, 



