The larkspur in my garden
  Is a sea of rose and blue,
The white moth is a ghost ship
  Drifting through.

The shadows fall like lilacs
  Raining from a garden sky,
Pollen laden bees go home,
  Bird songs die.

The honeysuckle breaks a flask,
  And a breeze, on pleasure bent,
Catches in her little hands
  The sharp scent.

In the darkness and the dew
  Come the little, flying flames,
Are they the forgotten dead,
  Without names?

Did they love the leaves and wind,
  Grass and gardens long ago
With a love that draws them home
  Where things grow?

For an hour with green leaves,
  Love immortal leaped to flame,
From the earth into the night
  Old hearts came.

What are you, fireflies,
That come as daylight dies?

THE LITTLE GHOST:  EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

I knew her for a little ghost
    That in my garden walked;
The wall is high—­higher than most—­
    And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that
    Till after she was gone—­
I knew her by the broad white hat,
    All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet,
    By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
    Her gown’s white folds among.

I watched to see if she would stay,
    What she would do—­and oh! 
She looked as if she liked the way
    I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favorite mint
  With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled—­there was no hint
  Of sadness in her face.

She held her gown on either side
  To let her slippers show,
And up the walk she went with pride,
  The way great ladies go.

And where the wall is built in new
  And is of ivy bare
She paused—­then opened and passed through
  A gate that once was there.

HAUNTED:  LOUIS UNTERMEYER

Between the moss and stone
  The lonely lilies rise;
Wasted and overgrown
  The tangled garden lies. 
Weeds climb about the stoop
  And clutch the crumbling walls;
The drowsy grasses droop—­
  The night wind falls.

The place is like a wood;
  No sign is there to tell
Where rose and iris stood
  That once she loved so well. 
Where phlox and asters grew,
  A leafless thornbush stands,
And shrubs that never knew
  Her tender hands....

Over the broken fence
  The moonbeams trail their shrouds;
Their tattered cerements
  Cling to the gauzy clouds,
In ribbons frayed and thin—­
  And startled by the light
Silence shrinks deeper in
  The depths of night.

Useless lie spades and rakes;
  Rust’s on the garden-tools. 
Yet, where the moonlight makes
  Nebulous silver pools
A ghostly shape is cast—­
  Something unseen has stirred.... 
Was it a breeze that passed? 
  Was it a bird?