Lavender

Those who sell lavender have blind, patient faces, That know rain or sunshine, whichever it may be; They haunt old corners, in old familiar places,— And their scented ware of violet-grey, they cry cheerily:— "Lavender! Lavender!"

Lavender from gardens where day comes and closes, Set about with sweetness, and humming of the bees; Lavender from gardens where bloom cinnamon roses, And blue beds of larkspur, and borders of heartsease.

The tide of the city, ever onward flowing, Is a swift tide and heedless, a rough tide and strong; But over it sometimes when a light wind is blowing, The sweetness of lavender comes drifting along.

Ah! Strange key of perfume that turns locks long rusty, And opens doors of memory the years have shut fast; To one here and there on the highway long and dusty, You bring back old gardens—old gardens of the past:— "Lavender! Lavender! Lavender!"