IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



While, gaily from the green o'erhead, 



Upon a spray of tender thorn 

 That blushes into white and red, 



A glad thrush sings and makes the morn! 

 WILLIAM ACKERMAN. 



The little window looks upon the East, 

 And far beneath the scented garden ground 

 Exhales its fragrance; it is wafted up 

 The white magnolia sends a cloud of scent 

 Which oft in certain quarters of the wind 

 Pours tide-like through the casement. You detect 

 The faint sweet perfume of white rose and red. 

 The lily languishes and droops and dies, 

 But cannot reach it. Yet the maiden knows 

 Its virgin bloom is ever pouring out 

 Delicious life in aspiration there, 

 And it stands first of all her garden queens 

 In her pure love and vivifying care. 



DORA STUART-MONTEITH. 



Avalon. 



[138] 



