THE OLD GARDEN 233 



A wedge of vivid blue the larkspur shines 



From out the thorny heart of the sweetbriar, 



And at its side are velvet brandy-wines, 



Shadowed by honeysuckles' fringe of fire. 



On the long grass, where still the drops of dew 



Are threaded like a necklace for the dawn, 



The flaming poppies their soft petals strew, 



Then stand and shiver, all their brav'ry gone. 



Each crumpled, crepe-like leaf is soft as silk ; 



Long, long ago the children saw them there, 



Scarlet and rose, with fringes white as milk, 



And called them " shawls for fairies' dainty wear ! " 



They were not finer, those laid safe away 



In that low attic, 'neath the brown, warm eaves, 



Where yellow sunshine 011 the rafters lay, 



Or danced with shadows of the outside leaves 



The scent of cedarn chest in each soft fold, 



And ling' ring sweetness of dried lavender, 



Or pale-pressed rose-leaves. 



Still the grape-vines hold 



The leaning arbour, where the leaves scarce stir, 

 In cool green darkness that shuts out the sky ; 

 For, if a sunbeam wandered there, 't was lost, 

 Or flitted like a golden butterfly 

 Across the ceiling that the fruit embossed. 

 'Neath it the path was worn and mossy green, 

 And here, on long, still, Sunday afternoons, 

 The garden hidden by the leafy screen, 

 A child could walk, crooning to low, strange 



tunes, 

 Her catechism, or the evening hymn ; 



