I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerful ness I can wait. My foothold is tenoned and mortised in granite, I laugh at what you call dissolution, And I know the amplitude of time. THE STORY OF NARCISSUS ANONYMOUS NARCISSUS was a beautiful youth, who, seeing his image reflected in a fountain, became so enamored of it that he pined away and was finally changed into the flower that bears his name. Poetic legends regard this as a just punishment for his hard-heartedness to Echo, and other wood-nymphs and maidens, who had loved him devotedly. The narcissus loves the borders of streams, and is admirably personified in the story, for bending on its fragile stem it seems to be always seeking to see its own image reflected in the waters. FROM A WILD STRAWBERRY* BY HENRY VAN DYKE FOR my own part, I approve of garden flowers because they are so orderly and so certain; but wild * From "Fisherman's Luck," copyright, 1899, 1905, by Charles Scribner's Sons. flowers I love, just because there is so much chance about them. Nature is all in favor of certainty in great laws and of uncertainty in small events. You cannot appoint the day and the place for her flower shows. If you happen to drop in at the right moment she will give you a free admission. But even then it seems as if the table of beauty had been spread for the joy of a higher visitor, and in obedience to secret orders which you have not heard. FLOWERS* BY H. W. LONGFELLOW SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden, Stars they are, wherein we read our history, Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, * By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Bright and glorious is that revelation, Written all over this great world of ours, Making evident our own creation In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, Brilliant hopes all woven in gorgeous tissues, Those in flowers and men are more than seeming; Workings are they of the self-same powers Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing- Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, Not alone in meadows and green alleys, Not alone in her vast dome of glory, In the cottage of the rudest peasant, In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present, Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; In all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things. And with child-like, credulous affection DAFFODILS BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Continuous as the stars that shine Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed and gazed- but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought. For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, |