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Page 33 text:
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Jtrtetnisia HOU art not fragrant Artemisia, Nor hast thou a beauteous flower, Brilliant leaves thou canst not flutter, Nature quite forgot thy dower. Artists seek not thee for color; Poets sing not of thy shades; But to me, O, Artemisia, Sacred are thy sunny glades. Few can know, O, Artemisia, All the beauties that ye hide. Dainty nest of flute-voiced thrasher, And shy sage fowl there abide ; Soft-eyed rabbits love thy thickets. Tender mosses ease their feet, Where, perchance, some purple blossoms Fragrant make their cool retreat. Oh, how rarely Nature made thee, For the creatures that ye love ! Frightened, though, each one will seek thee, F ' en the shyest mourning dove. Throbbing hearts thy shadows quiet; Quivering creatures nestle down. Knowing well the place of refuge ' Neath the spreading of thy crown. Memories art there, Artemisia, Of long, weary journeys made. Where thy gathered branches, kindled, Mingled with the lights that fade. Fragrant still those memoried campfires Though their embers long are dead ; Thankful were the wearied travelers That by thee the fires were fed. 29 4
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Page 32 text:
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II ARTEMISIA STAFF.
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Page 34 text:
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-• « Far across the wastes of desert Fell aslant the sinking sun, Making all thy myriad branches Into molten silver run ; Kissing thee, plain Artemisia, ' ' As thou wast a royal one, . , Glorifying all thy raiment As magicians might have done. Thus, thou simple Artemisia, Nature would the slight undo. Creatures love thee not for beauty; Wanderers find a friend most true; And the sun, so proud, so haughty, Traveling far above thy ways. In his glory deigns to kiss thee, Sanctifying all thy days. But to me, O, Artemisia, Bring thou childish moments back. And in this thou art made dearer Than by beauties that thou lack. Mountains clothed in thee forever. Towering up to view the sky. All about my home in childhood. Seemed to meet the blue on high. Thou wast home, O, Artemisia, To the creatures and to me. This of all the things the dearest, To be near thee, strong and free, Up among the gloomy canons, In and out the wild ravines — Only thou, sweet Artemisia, Canst revive those cherished scenes. H. E. CruTCHER. 30
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