58 LITERARY PILGRIMAGES 



a moment, lifted above the islands in benediction 

 and then passed. The poppies in Celia Thaxter's 

 garden folded their two inner petals like slim 

 hands, clasped in prayer, lifted trustfully to the 

 sky. 



A little way from the garden that she loved and 

 tended so long is Celia Thaxter's grave, on a 

 knoll to which the sky bends so gently that it seems 

 as if you might step off into it. Up to the smooth 

 turf of this knoll crowd all the pasture shrubs 

 that she loved, sheltering it from the wind on 

 three sides and letting the sun smile in upon it all 

 day long without hindrance. The sumacs come 

 nearest as if they were the very guard of honor, 

 but close behind them press the wild roses, the 

 St. John's-wort, the evening primorses and even 

 the shy white clover slipping in between the 

 others, very close to the ground, and tossing soft 

 perfumes out over the brown grass. On the 

 grave itself someone in loving remembrance 

 scatters the petals of red geranium, which seems 

 of all things the home-loving, home-keeping 

 flower. The poppies are for poets' dreams which 

 write themselves in the dancing morning wind, 



