Up shone May, like gold, and soon 



Green as an arbour grew leafy June. 



And now all summer she sits and sews 



Where willow herb, comfrey, bugloss blows, 



Teasle and tansy, meadowsweet, 



Campion, toadflax, and rough hawksbit ; 



Brown bee orchis, and Peals of Bells ; 



Clover, bumet, and thyme she smells ; 



Like Oberon's meadows her garden is 



Drowsy from dawn till dusk with bees. 



Weeps she never, but sometimes sighs, 



And peeps at her garden with bright brown eyes ; 



And all she has is all she needs — 



A poor old Widow in her weeds. 



WALTER DE LA MARE. 



THE GARDEN IN SEPTEMBER 



N 



OW thin mists temper the slow-ripening beams 



Of the September sun : his golden gleams 



On gaudy flowers shine, that prank the rows 



Of high-grown hollyhocks, and all tall shows 



That Autumn flaunteth in his bushy bowers ; 



Where tomtits hanging from the drooping heads 



Of giant sun-flowers, peck the nutty seeds ; 



And in the feathery aster bees on wing 



Seize and set free the honied flowers, 



Till thousand stars leap with their visiting : 



While ever across the path mazily flit, 



Unpiloted in the sun, 



The dreamy butterflies 



With dazzling colours powdered and soft glooms, 



56 



