October, 1918 
17 
Gillies 
SO IS A LITTLE POOL TO A GARDEN 
A jewel on a woman’s hand, a bright vase in a quiet room, 
so is a little pool to a garden. The seasons may come and 
go—flowers fade and die, shrubs turn brown, leaves fall, 
house walls stand gaunt, paths be hard to the feet and wind 
raw to the cheeks—still the little pool mirrors the sky and 
the fountain trickles its pizzicato through the autumn days 
