University of Virginia Library

NEW GARDEN SECRETS.

BEFORE AND AFTER FLOWERING.

BEFORE.

First Violet.
Lo here! how warm and dark and still it is;
Sister, lean close to me, that we may kiss.
Here we go rising, rising—know'st thou where?

Second Violet.
Indeed I cannot tell, nor do I care,
It is so warm and pleasant here. But hark!
What strangest sound was that above the dark?

First Violet.
As if our sisters all together sang,—
Seemed it not so?

Second Violet.
More loud than that it rang;
And louder still it rings, and seems more near.
Oh, I am shaken through and through with fear—
Now in some deadly grip I seemed confined!
Farewell, my sister! Rise, and follow, and find!

First Violet.
From how far off those last words seemed to fall!
Gone where she will not answer when I call!
How lost? how gone? Alas! this sound above me,—
“Poor little Violet, left with none to love thee!”
And now, it seems, I break against that sound!
What bitter pain is this that binds me round,
This pain I press into! Where have I come?

AFTER.

A Crocus.
Welcome, dear sisters, to our fairy home!
They call this Garden; and the time is Spring.
Like you I have felt the pain of flowering;
But, oh, the wonder and the deep delight
It was to stand here, in the broad sunlight,
And feel the Wind flow round me cool and kind;
To hear the singing of the leaves the Wind
Goes hurrying through; to see the mighty Trees,
Where every day the blossoming buds increase.
At evening, when the shining Sun goes in,
The gentler lights look down, and dews begin,
And all is still, beneath the quiet sky,
Save sometimes for the Wind's low lullaby.

First Tree.
Poor little flowers!

Second Tree.
What would you prate of, now?

First Tree.
They have not heard; I will keep still. Speak low.

First Violet.
The Trees bend to each other lovingly.

Crocus.
Daily they whisper of fair things to be.
Great talk they make about the coming Rose,
The very fairest flower, they say, that blows!
Such scent she hath; her leaves are red, they say,
And fold her round in some divine, sweet way.

First Violet.
Would she were come, that for ourselves we might
Have pleasure in this wonder of delight!

Crocus.
Here comes the laughing, dancing, hurrying rain;
How all the Trees laugh at the Wind's light strain!

First Violet.
We are so near the earth, the Wind goes by
And hurts us not; but if we stood up high,
Like Trees, then should we soon be blown away.

Second Violet.
Nay; were it so, we should be strong as they.

Crocus.
I often think how nice to be a Tree;
Why, sometimes in their boughs the Stars I see.

First Violet.
Have you seen that?

Crocus.
I have, and so shall you
But hush! I feel the coming of the dew.

NIGHT.

Second Violet.
How bright it is! the Trees, how still they are!

Crocus.
I never saw before so bright a Star
As that which stands and shines just over us.

First Violet
(after a pause).
My leaves feel strange and very tremulous.

Crocus and Second Violet together.
And mine, and mine!

First Violet.
O warm, kind Sun, appear!

Crocus.
I would the Stars were gone, and day were here!

JUST BEFORE DAWN.

First Violet.
Sister! No, answer, sister? Why so still?

One Tree to Another.
Poor little Violet, calling through the chill
Of this new frost which did her sister slay,
In which she must herself, too, pass away!
Nay, pretty Violet, be not so dismayed;
Sleep only, on your sister sweet, is laid.

First Violet.
No pleasant Wind about the garden goes,
Perchance the Wind has gone to bring the Rose.
O sister! surely now your sleep is done.
I would we had not looked upon the Sun.
My leaves are stiff with pain. O cruel night!
And through my root some sharp thing seems to bite.
Ah me! what pain, what coming change is this?

(She dies.)
First Tree.
So endeth many a Violet's dream of bliss.

THE ROSE'S DREAM.

I.

O sisters, when last night so well you slept
I could not sleep; but through the silent air
I looked upon the white Moon, shining where
No scent of any Rose can reach, I know.
And as I looked, adown the path there crept
A little trembling, restless Wind, and lo!
As near it came, I said, “O little breeze,
That hast no strength wherewith to stir the trees,
What dost thou in this place?” It only sighed,
And paused a little ere it thus replied,—

II.

“I am the Wind that comes before the rain,—
Which, even now, bears onward from the west,
The rain that is as sweet to you as rest.
When all the air about the day lies dead,
And the incessant sunlight grows a pain,
Then by the cool rain are you comforted.
O happy Rose, that shall not live to see
This summer garden altered utterly,—
You know not of the days of snow and ice,
Nor know the look of wild and wintry skies.”

III.

Then passed the Wind, but left me very sad,
For I began to think of days to come,
Wherein the Sun should fail and birds grow dumb,
And how this garden then should look, indeed.
And as I thought of all, such fear I had
I cried to you, asleep, though none would heed;
And so I wept, though none might see me weep,
Till came the Wind again, and bade me sleep,
And sang me such a small, sweet song that soon
I fell asleep while looking on the Moon.

IV.

And as I slept I dreamed a fearful dream:—
It seemed to me that I was standing here,
The sky was sunless, and I saw anear
All you, my sisters, lying dead and crushed.
I could not hear the music of the stream
That runs hard by, when suddenly there rushed
A giant Wind adown the garden walk,
And all the great old Trees began to talk,
And cried, “What does the Rose here? Bid her go,
Lest buried she should be in coming snow.”

V.

I strove to move away, but all in vain;
And flying, as it passed me, cried the Wind,
“O foolish, little Rose, and art thou blind?
Dost thou not see the snow is coming fast?”
And all the swaying Trees cried out again,
“O foolish Rose, to tarry till the last!”
Then came a sudden whirl, a mighty noise,
As every Tree that lives had found a voice;
And I was borne away, and lifted high,
As birds that dart in summer through the sky.

VI.

And then the great Wind fell away, and so
I felt that I was whirling down and down,
Past Trees that strove, with branches bare and brown,
To catch me as I fell; and all they cried,—
“She will be buried in the cold, deep snow;
Ah, would she had like other Roses died!”
Then, as I thought to fall, I woke to find
The cool rain dropping on me, and the Wind
Singing a rainy song among the Trees,
Wherein the birds were building at their ease.

VII.

First Flower.
A fearful dream, indeed, and such an one
As well may make you sad for days to come.

Second Flower.
A sad, strange dream!

The Rose.
Why is the Lily dumb?

The Lily.
Too sad the dream for me to speak about!

The Rose.
I fear, this night, the setting of the Sun.

A Tree.
Nay, when the Sun goes in the Stars come out.
You shall not dream, Rose, such a dream again;
Forget it, now, in listening to the rain.

The Rose.
I would the Wind had never talked to me
Of things that I shall never live to see!

THE FLOWER AND THE HAND.

Just after Nightfall.

I heard a whisper of Roses,
And light, white Lilies laugh out—
“Ah, sweet when the evening closes,
And Stars come looking about;
How cool and good it is to stand,
Nor fear at all the gathering hand!”
“Would I were red!” cried a White Rose,
“Would I were white!” cried a red one.
“No longer the light Wind blows,
He went with the dear dead Sun.
Here we forever seem to stay,
And yet a Sun dies every day.”
A Lily.
“The Sun is not dead, but sleeping,
And each day the same Sun wakes;
But when Stars their watch are keeping,
Then a time of rest he takes.”

Many Roses together.
“How very wise these Lilies are!
They must have heard Sun talk with Star!”

First Rose.
“Pray, then, can you tell us, Lilies,
Where slumbers the Wind at night,
When the garden all round so still is,
And brimmed with the Moon's pale light?”

A Lily.
“In branches of great Trees he rests.”

Second Rose.
“Not so; they are too full of nests.”

First Rose.
“I think he sleeps where the grass is;
He there would have room to lie;
The white Moon over him passes;
He wakes with the dawning sky.”

Many Lilies together.
“How very wise these Roses seem,
Who think they know, and only dream!”

First Rose.
“What haps to a gathered flower?”

Second Rose.
“Nay, sister, now who can tell?
One comes not back a single hour,
To say it is ill or well:
I would with such an one confer,
To know what strange things chanced to her.”

First Rose.
“Hush! hush! now the Wind is waking—
Or is it the Wind I hear?
My leaves are thrilling and shaking—
Good-by—I am gathered, my dear!
Now, whether for my bliss or woe,
I shall know what the plucked flowers know!”

GARDEN FAIRIES.