JULY 153 



DAWN 



" The colours of an opal faint and flush 

 On the pale sky, wherein one lambent star 

 Lights in the Hours. In the expectant hush 

 The low tide sobs against the hidden bar. 



NOON 



" Dawn vainly longs for, and Midnight regrets, 

 And Sunset emulates Noon's splendid strife. 

 Noon, overborne with restless toils and frets, 

 Envies their charmed stillness; This is life. 



SUNSET 



" 'Tis not the dying Day that paints the skies 

 With green and crimson, purple and pale gold : 

 'Tis Father Past, who thus in state doth rise 

 Another son to welcome to his fold. 



MIDNIGHT 



" The moon rides high, the skies are cold and grey, 

 The earth's asleep ; the waves are murmuring : 

 To-morrow, smiling, takes from Yesterday 

 The worn old crown of countless discrowned kings." 



I think I said I should have a white garden 

 for July. I am sure it should be planted 

 chiefly with the respectable hardy sisterhood 

 who are like efficient spinsters in their ability 

 to care for themselves, and like notable 

 mothers of families in their cheerful endeavour 

 to make everybody comfortable. When July 



