Page:The Yellow Book - 02.djvu/318

276 A verdant carpet smoothly laid Doth oft invite My silent steps; thereon the sun With silver thread of dew hath spun Devices rare—the warp of shade, The weft of light.

Here dwell my chosen books, whose leaves With healing breath The ache of discontent assuage, And speak from each illumined page The patience that my soul reprieves From inward death;

Some perish with a season's wind, And some endure; One robes itself in snow, and one In raiment of the rising sun Bordered with gold; in all I find God's signature.

As on my grassy couch I lie, From hedge and tree Musicians pipe; or if the heat Subdue the birds, one crooneth sweet Whose labour is a lullaby— The slumbrous bee. {{rh|||The