30 BOOK OF THE SCENTED GARDEN 
THE O Lp BrocabDE 
In a black oak chest all carven, 
We found it laid, 
still faintly sweet of Lavender, 
An old brocade. 
With that perfume came a vision, 
A garden fair, 
Enclosed by great yew hedges ; 
A Lady there, 
Is culling fresh blown lavender, 
And singing goes 
Up and down the alleys green— 
A human rose. 
The sun glints on her auburn hair 
And brightens, too, 
The silver buckles that adorn 
Each little shoe. 
Her ’kerchief and her elbow sleeves 
Are cobweb lace ; 
Her gown, it is our old brocade, 
Worn with a grace. 
Methinks I hear its soft frou-frou, 
And see the sheen 
Of its dainty pink moss-rose buds, 
Their leaves soft green, 
On a ground of palest shell pink, 
In garlands laid ; 
But long dead the Rose who wore it— 
The old brocade. 
M. G. Brereton, in “ A Celtic Christmas,” 1903. 
ele 
‘«“A few notes of a buried song, the perfume of 
trodden grass. [he odour of a flower, an old familiar 
word or two, even commoner things have at times 
enough magic in them to uncover long-forgotten faces, 
disclose distant lands or vanished scenes, although in 
