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IN HELENA'S GARDEN
Its own thought hath;
It is more wise
Than you or I;
As if with eyes
That peer and try,
It feels its way
Across the day.
What little feet
Hard have packed it!
What great hoofs
Gouged and wracked it!
Rude water-courses
Cut across it,
Rocks emboss it;
A lichened cliff
Its route enforces.
Yet on it goes,
And upward flows
Through the dark pines
In wayward lines;
Past the birches
Skyward it lurches:
One more flight—
And on the hight
At last we stand,
And catch the vision
Of sky and land.
"WHAT MAKES THE GARDEN GROW"
What makes the garden grow
In beauty and delight—
A place to linger in by day or night,
