A Midsummer Garden

There is a little garden-close,
Girdled by golden apple trees,
That through the long sweet summer hours
Is haunted by the hum of bees.

The poppy tosses here its torch,
And the tall bee-balm flaunts its fire,
And regally the larkspur lifts
The slender azure of its spire.

And from the phlox and mignonette
Rich attars drift on every hand;
And when star-vestured twilight comes
The pale moths weave a saraband.

And crickets in the aisles of grass
With their clear fifing pierce the hush;
And somewhere you may hear anear
The passion of the hermit-thrush.

It is a place where dreams convene,
Dreams of the dead years gone astray,
Of love and loveliness borne back
From some forgotten yesterday.

It is a memory-hallowed spot
Where joy assumes its vernal guise,
And two walk silent side by side,
Youth’s glory shining in their eyes.

Clinton Scollard