The crickets work and chirrup The odorous wild grape clambers Over the tumbling wall, And through the autumnal quiet The chestnuts open and fall. Sharing time's freshness and fragrance, Part of the earth's great soul, Here man's spirit may ripen To wisdom serene and whole. Shall we not grow with the asters?— Never reluctant nor sad, Not counting the cost of being, Living to dare and be glad. Shall we not lift with the crickets A chorus of ready cheer, Braving the frost of oblivion, The deep red cones of the sumach Giving them glory of color, Here in the sifted sunlight On the beauty and worth of being, An Autumn Garden For the ancient and virile nurture For fire and running water, When the mellow lights are kindled For those who wrought aforetime, Led by the mystic strain To strive for the larger freedom, For plenty and peace and playtime, For art and learning and friendship, Those everlasting cities Built on the hills of dream; For all things growing and goodly Out of the mortal seed. But most of all for the spirit That can not rest nor bide 1405 But still inspired and driven, Bliss Carman [1861 UNGUARDED THE Mistress of the Roses And through her garden closes See on its rustic spindles The sundrop's amber fire! And the goldenrod enkindles The embers on its spire. The dodder's shining tangle From the meadow brook steals in, Where in this shadowed angle The pale lace-makers spin. Here's Black-Eyed Susan weeping And Bouncing Bet comes creeping Now in this pleasant weather- They dwell and dream together, The kin of court and wild. THE DESERTED GARDEN I MIND me in the days departed, The Deserted Garden The beds and walks were vanished quite; I called the place my wilderness; The trees were interwoven wild, And spread their boughs enough about Adventurous joy it was for me! I crept beneath the boughs, and found Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, Long years ago, it might befall, Some lady, stately overmuch, Here moving with a silken noise, Has blushed beside them at the voice That likened her to such. Or these, to make a diadem, She often may have plucked and twined, That few would look at them. 1407 Oh, little thought that lady proud, And silk was changed for shroud! Nor thought that gardener, (full of scorns To me upon my low moss seat, I ween they smelt as sweet. It did not move my grief to see Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken Hath childhood 'twixt the sun and sward; We draw the moral afterward, We feel the gladness then. And gladdest hours for me did glide In silence at the rose-tree wall: Nor he nor I did e'er incline To peck or pluck the blossoms white; To make my hermit-home complete, And cresses glossy wet. |