NOVEMBER 255 



" Are those days all past, or all before 

 Us, Grandfather? 



Where you are now on that blessed shore 

 Do they wait with you, those days of yore 

 In the Land where change comes never more ? 

 Shall we find them stored, that precious hoard ! 

 Summers and winters, falls and springs, 

 Snowfalls and harvests and blossomings 

 Babyhood, childhood, budding youth, 

 Innocence, happiness love and truth, 

 And you, Grandfather?" 



I seem to have come to the farthermost metes 

 and bounds of the garden since I have planted 

 a red-oak forest beyond a stretch of marshland, 

 and a deep-bosomed orchard, and not a word 

 have I said of my flowers. And even now I 

 can come no farther than the hedge, since I 

 must have a hedge of the native thorns which 

 were white in May and now are red with the 

 small sour haws beloved by boys and birds. 

 Over certain haws the feathery clematis must 

 toss her grey seed clusters, and over others 

 the bittersweet must twist his tight cordage 

 covered with brilliant berries. Some wahoos 

 must grow in the corner, because of their gay 

 three-cornered hats, and there must be some 

 barberries threaded over with jewels. On one 

 side of the place tall privets must shut out winds 



