Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/137
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IN A MOONLIT GARDEN
The moon has cast a spell upon my garden;
Wherever she has laid her cool white fingers
The flowers all yield to her enchantress' sway,
Lilies have added cubits to their stature—
For see how long now are their slender shadows
Stretching so black across the shining way!
The petals of the columbines and roses
And the blue lupins all are touched with silver—
Each pansy's face has lost its look of fun.
But strangest is the spell upon my fountain;
No naiad is it now, but a young gambler,
Tossing up shining pennies one by one.
And very deep appears its shallow basin—
As deep as is the moss that holds my footprints—
And all its fish seem carven, stone-like things;
While for the song these waters sang at morning,
Tinkling in happy chorus with the thrushes,
Prevails a stillness, as of muted strings.
Wherever she has laid her cool white fingers
The flowers all yield to her enchantress' sway,
Lilies have added cubits to their stature—
For see how long now are their slender shadows
Stretching so black across the shining way!
The petals of the columbines and roses
And the blue lupins all are touched with silver—
Each pansy's face has lost its look of fun.
But strangest is the spell upon my fountain;
No naiad is it now, but a young gambler,
Tossing up shining pennies one by one.
And very deep appears its shallow basin—
As deep as is the moss that holds my footprints—
And all its fish seem carven, stone-like things;
While for the song these waters sang at morning,
Tinkling in happy chorus with the thrushes,
Prevails a stillness, as of muted strings.
Antoinette De Coursey Patterson
Contemporary Verse
Contemporary Verse
IN THE BARN
The sun, in wanton pride,
Drenches the country-side
With spilt gold from his old autumnal store.
But Scipio sits within the barn's thick gloom,
The merest crack of light coming in the door—
Sits and husks the corn long after working hours.
Vainly for him the autumn bloom
Is on the flowers.
The inside of the barn is velvet black
Except where a gold thread runs along a crack;
And the inquisitive sun thrusts points of light
Drenches the country-side
With spilt gold from his old autumnal store.
But Scipio sits within the barn's thick gloom,
The merest crack of light coming in the door—
Sits and husks the corn long after working hours.
Vainly for him the autumn bloom
Is on the flowers.
The inside of the barn is velvet black
Except where a gold thread runs along a crack;
And the inquisitive sun thrusts points of light
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