132 ARBOR DAY 



Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city, 

 Before those lays from the elm have ceased: 



The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly 

 As in the air of her native east. 



Though many a flower in the wood is waking, 



The daffodil is our doorside queen; 

 She pushes upward the sward already, 



To spot with sunshine the early green. 



No lays so joyous as these are warbled 

 From wiry prison in maiden's bower; 



No pampered bloom of the greenhouse chamber 

 Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower. 



Yet these sweet sounds of the early season, 

 And these fair sights of its sunny days, 



Are only sweet when we fondly listen, 

 And only fair when we fondly gaze. 



A VIOLIN MOOD 



BY ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER 



TO-DAY the sense of spring fills all my frame, 



And, thrilling, stirs and throbs in me as when 

 The sap began to course like liquid flame 



In March in my old tree-home far from men. 



And now my voice grows warm and rich again 

 And full of vibrant, vernal murmuring, 



Re-echoing bird-notes out of brake and fen 



