PATHS

What words of mine can tell the spell

Of garden ways I know so well?—

The path that takes me, in the spring,

Past quinces where the blue-birds sing,

Where peonies are blossoming,

Unto a porch, wistaria-hung,

Around whose steps May-lilies blow,

A fair girl reaches down among,

Her arm more white than their sweet snow.

What words of mine can tell the spell

Of garden ways I know so well?—

Another path that leads me, when

The summer-time is here again,

Past hollyhocks that shame the west

When the red sun has sunk to rest;

To roses bowering a nest,

A lattice,‘ neath which mignonette

And deep geraniums surge and sough,

Where, in the twilight, starless yet,

A fair girl's eyes are stars enough.

What words of mine can tell the spell

Of garden ways I know so well?—

A path that takes me, when the days

Of autumn wrap themselves in haze,

Beneath the pippin-pelting tree,

‘ Mid flitting butterfly and bee;

Unto a door where, fiery,

The creeper climbs; and, garnet-hued,

The cock's-comb and the dahlia flare,

And in the door, where shades intrude,

Gleams out a fair girl's sunbeam hair.

What words of mine can tell the spell

Of garden ways I know so well?—

A path that brings me o'er the frost

Of winter, when the moon is tossed

In clouds; beneath great cedars, weak

With shaggy snow; past shrubs blown bleak

With shivering leaves; to eaves that leak

The tattered ice, whereunder is

A fire-flickering window-space;

And in the light, with lips to kiss,

A fair girl's welcome-giving face.