IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



When the shadow fell on the lake, 

 The whirlwind in ripples wrote 

 Air-bells of fortune that shine and break, 

 And omens above thought. 



But the meanings cleave to the lake, 

 Cannot be carried in book or urn ; 

 Go thy ways now, come later back, 

 On waves and hedges still they burn. 



These the fates of men forecast, 

 Of better men than live to-day; 

 If who can read them comes at last 

 He will spell in the sculpture, " Stay." 

 R. W. EMERSON. 



My Garden. 



A Ballad of White Maidens 



As I walked in the moonlight, a garden I found 

 By strange sorcery wrought all about and 



around ; 

 When the voices are muffled, the vistas are 



blurr'd, 



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