What wonder that she is fair? What wonder that she is sweet? The treasures of earth and air Lie at her dainty feet; The choicest fare is hers, Her cup is brimmed with wine; Rich are her emerald robes, And her bed is soft and fine. She need not lift her head Even to sip the dew; No rude touch makes her shrink The whole long summer through. Her servants do her will; They come at her beck and call. Oh, rare is life in my lady's bowers Inside of the garden wall II. THE GARDEN ROSE. The garden path runs east, And the garden path runs west; There's a tree by the garden gate, And a little bird in a nest. It sings and sings and sings! How, over the garden wall, The bright days come and go? The garden path runs north, And the garden path runs south; The brown bee hums in the sun, And kisses the lily's mouth; But it flies away ere long To the birch-tree dark and tall. What do you find, O brown bee, Over the garden wall? With ruff and farthingale, But even the light wind knows With a wild caress and free. Oh, straight is the garden path, And smooth is the garden bed, Where never an idle weed Dares lift its careless head. But I know outside the wall They gather, a merry throng; They dance and flutter and sing,— And I listen all day long. The Brier Rose swings outside; Whom no strait bonds enthrall? Oh, rare is life to the Brier Rose, Outside of the garden wall! Edward Dowden. SWALLOWS. Wide fields of air left luminous, The silence grows; but still to us From yon air-winnowing breasts elate The tiny shrieks of glee descend. Deft wings, each moment is resigned Light dash and dip and sidelong swerve, Will not your airy glee relent At all? The aimless frolic cease? No tender awe at daylight's wane, Hush, once again that cry intense! With zests and pangs ineffable. Not in the sunshine of old woods Who dared through darkening solitudes, The larger ordinance obey. THE VENUS OF MELOS. Goddess, or woman nobler than the God, Shifting and circling past their Cyclades Saw thee. The Earth, the gracious Earth, was trod To bitter things or barren, doth bestow And not exact; so thou art calm and wise; Thy large allurement saves; a man may grow AWAKENING. With brain o'erworn, with heart a summer clod, With dew, a lark upspringing from the sod, While from the open heaven leans forth at gaze BROTHER DEATH. When thou wouldst have me go with thee, O Death, Over the utmost verge, to the dim place, Practise upon me with no amorous grace Of fawning lips, and words of delicate breath, And curious music thy lute uttereth; Nor think for me there must be sought-out ways Hold thy hand out and I will place mine there; And dare to lay my forehead where the whole |