The Central Presbyterian

THE FARM.

Gardens.

The wide fair gardens, the rich lush gardens,
Which no man planted, and no man tills,
Their strong seeds drifted, their brave bloom lifted,
Near and far o'er the vales and hills;
Sip the bees from their cups of sweetness,
Poises above them the wild free wing,
And night and morn from their doors are borne
The dreams of the tunes that blithe hearts sing.
The waving gardens, the fragrant gardens
That toss in the sun by the broad highway,
Growing together, gorse and heather,
Aster and golden rod all the day.
Poppies dark with the wine of slumber,
Daisies bright with the look of dawn,
The gentian blue, and the long year through
The flowers that carry the seasons on.
And the dear old gardens, the pleasant gardens
Where mother used to potter about,
Tying and pulling, and sparingly culling,
And watching each bud as its flower laughed out;
Hollyhocks here, and the prince's feather,
Larkspur and primrose, and lilies white.
Sweet were the dear old-fashioned gardens
Where we kissed the mother, and said,
"Good night."
Margaret E. Sangster, in Harper's Bazar.