DRIFTWOOD AND DREAMS 201 



The poets loved gardens. If they have become kin to 

 our sympathy they walk with us in the flowery ways the 

 gallant, gentle spirit Edmund Spenser, the myriad- 

 minded Shakspere, gay Robert Herrick, even sober 

 Milton and the magister Amadeus Wolfgang von 

 Goethe. 



Let memories of them assemble as we gather the herbs, 

 the dried plants, and grasses raked from the paths and 

 beds to make a sacrificial fire to the fall of the year. The 

 fragrant smoke ascends in the mellowed sunlight, shaping 

 to the figure of an Aladdin's genie. Hail to the past of 

 those who made gardens ! All hail to every flower lover 

 in the land! We join our voices to those who have sung 

 their praises since time began. 



Cast sweet incense in the flames with gum of myrrh to 

 recall the days when shepherds watched their flocks by 

 night and wise men walked the flowery plains, following a 

 star in the east. 



Bring hither bunches of moly and rue, of sweet basil 

 and thyme, of balm of Gilead, cedar of Lebanon, and 

 wreaths of bay. Let the smoke rise higher and higher, 

 and evoke the days of the ceremonial of Solomon's 

 temple, of the Golden Age of Greece. 



Then break and scatter the log of driftwood, and 

 shatter the recollections of other lands and scenes woven 

 in the wanderings of a lifetime. Here to the nostrils 

 comes the scent of salt seas, of rolling breakers on a 



