POETRY.

THE LITTLE GARDENS.

WITHIN the secret gates of Paradise,

That stand between the sunset and the dawn,

In visions I have passed, not once nor twice,

And seen the happy souls, from earth withdrawn, Quiescent there, In the pure languor of the expectant air.

The place is all a garden, as you know, Greenness and graciousness and colour and scent ; Blossoming trees of gold and fire and snow, To blossoming earth with their dear burden bent ; And filmy spray Of fountains chiming in the shadows grey ; And flowers whose very splendour cries aloud, And flowers in dark recesses burning deep,— And lesser loveliness in starry crowd,

Head laid to head like little ones asleep,—

And vistas dim, Of branches pencilled on the horizon's rim.

But in a region by the westward wall, In sunny ways and less-frequented lands, There I have found some gardens, very small, Tended, for sure, by small and artless hands : Quaint plots that lie All disarranged in sweet asymmetry. There weeds and seeds are held in equal worth, The tall herbs and the gronndlings grow together, Rising, like Ilium, to such music-mirth' As brooklets babble in the blue May weather; And round each border Are pebbles set in careless careful order.

For they that do each childish garden till, With serious eyes waiting an outcome fit, The little exquisite folk, they have no skill To dig and sow, to prune and water it.

They do their best,

With toil pathetic : chance supplies the rest.

And none there is to hinder or to aid : Birds of a feather, all these doves take flight, Through the still sunshine or the tranquil shade, Fluttering around their gardens of delight; They kneel, they bend, They labour gaily till the day's rose-end.

And I have heard the baby footsteps run,—.

Along the pathways they have pattered That sound which whoso hears, henceforth has done

With all that earth can proffer or deny,—

Whose echo veers Down the void loneliness of silent years.

And I have seen your tiny fingers touch, Heart of my heart ! each slim and dainty stem ; Those puny flowers whereof you make so much, 0 God, how I have looked and envied them !

Watching your smile, That only they have known, this long, long while.

Now when the friendly gates for me unfold, I shall forget the boughs of snow and fire; For recompense of all mine anguish old, Give me the gladness of fulfilled desire,—.

Let me but go, Good Father ! where the Little Gardens grow.

MAY BYRON.