Classic Poem

Up and down the garden walks
Every day I watch her go,
Past great clumps of nodding stalks
Crowned with blushing crimson roses,
Or with lilies, white as snow.

Lilacs dashing on the air
Persian odors, in delight
Bend and almost touch her hair;
On the bough where he reposes
Sings the oriole with his might.

She has crocuses in spring,
Yellow, purple, pink, and gray,
Daffodils that round her fling
Gold magnificently minted,
Snowdrops tender, jonquils gay.

Tulips, scarlet-mantled, turn
Richer red as she goes by,
Royal princesses that spurn
In their splendour, all unstinted,
Other flowers that venture nigh.

Easter lilies crave the touch
Of her carmine-tinted lips, —
Finer flowers by far than such
As bedeck the fields immortal,
Whose soft fragrance Juno sips.

Down a pink-plumed peony row
Into purple iris lanes,
Onward still I see her go,
To a Turk's-cap-lilied portal,
Where perpetual coolness reigns.

There in deep, luxuriant bowers
Of wistaria, rich with bloom,
Sits the Lady of the Flowers, —
Queens have subjects, myriads rally
Round her beautiful throne-room.

" High midsummer pomps " ere long
Crowd about their sovereign's feet,
Orange-spiked tritonias throng,
Orient poppies outward sally
To protect her royal seat.

Indian pinks, and blue-bells bound
In a chaplet, she may wear,
Trumpet flowers in crimson gowned
Like the queens of eastern story
She may have to deck her hair.

When September's gold and red
Make the world a sea of flame
Round her in ripe splendour spread
" Indian visions steeped in glory, "
Putting earlier scenes to shame,

Purple phlox in rich array,
Salvia in conspicuous rows,
Yellow cannas, larkspur gay,
Mignonette and musk carnations,
Dahlias in majestic pose.

All alike possess her heart,
She is sovereign, that they know,
But she never dwells apart
Like the queens of other nations
From her folk on planes below;

Through the winding garden walks
Every day she freely moves,
Holding sympathetic talks
With her friends, whate'er their stations,
For the meanest one she loves.