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.