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.