IV

SUMMER SUN

YREAT is the sun, and wide he goes

without repose;

And in the blue and glowing days

More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,

Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad

He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles,
Into the laddered hayloft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.

THE DUMB SOLDIER

HEN the grass was closely mown,

WHEN the grass was m

In the turf a hole I found
And hid a soldier underground.

Spring and daisies came apace;
Grasses hide my hiding place;
Grasses run like a green sea
O'er the lawn up to my knee.

Under grass alone he lies,
Looking up with leaden eyes,
Scarlet coat and pointed gun,
To the stars and to the sun.

When the grass is ripe like grain,
When the scythe is stoned again,
When the lawn is shaven clear,
Then my hole shall reappear.

I shall find him, never fear,

I shall find my grenadier;
But for all that's gone and come,

I shall find my soldier dumb.

He has lived, a little thing,
In the grassy woods of spring;
Done, if he could tell me true,
Just as I should like to do.

He has seen the starry hours
And the springing of the flowers;
And the fairy things that pass
In the forests of the grass.

In the silence he has heard
Talking bee and ladybird,
And the butterfly has flown
O'er him as he lay alone.

Not a word will he disclose,
Not a word of all he knows.
I must lay him on the shelf,
And make up the tale myself.

VII

THE GARDENER

THE gardener does not love to talk,

He makes me keep the gravel walk; And when he puts his tools away, He locks the door and takes the key.

Away behind the currant row

Where no one else but cook may go,
Far in the plots, I see him dig,

Old and serious, brown and big.

He digs the flowers, green, red and blue,

Nor wishes to be spoken to.

He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,
And never seems to want to play.

Silly gardener! summer goes,

And winter comes with pinching toes,
When in the garden bare and brown
You must lay your barrow down.

Well now, and while the summer stays,
To profit by these garden days,
O how much wiser you would be
To play at Indian wars with me!