Poem by Harriet Monroe

The Garden

Hiding under the hill,
Heavy with trailing robes and tangled veils of green,
Till only its little haggard face was visible,
The garden lay shy and wistful,
Lovelorn for summer departing,
Blowing its little trickling fountain tune into the air.
And over all, hushing, soothing,
Lay the clematis
Like early snow.

1. A Letter from Peking
2. Lullaby
3. The Blue Ridge
4. With a Copy of Shelley
5. A Portrait

Alice Meynell The Garden ("My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own")

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