Golden Rod, slender and tall--
I shall be Pond Lily, secret and still--
I shall be Sweetbriar, Queen of them all--

"I shall give shade for the weary to rest--
I shall grow flax for the naked to wear--
Figs for a feast and all comers to guest--
Wreaths that girls twine in the laugh of their hair--

"Ivy for scholars and myrtle for lovers,
Laurel for conquerors, poets, and kings--
Broad-spreading beech-boughs whose benison covers
Clamor of bird-notes and flutter of wings--

"I shall rise tall as an elm in my grace--
I shall be clothed as catalpa is clad--
Poets shall crown me with lyrics of praise--
Lovers for lure of my blossoms go mad!"

Which shall it be, baby? Guess you at all?
Only I know in the lull of the year
You have said now where your choosing shall fall,
Only you have not yet heard yourself, dear.

So, like a mocking-bird, up in the trees,
I watching wondering where you have grown,
Borrow a note from a birdfellow's glees,
Fittest to sing you, and make it my own.

Only I know as I wonder, Karlene,
Singing up here where you think me a star,
Heaven's still above me, and some one serene
Laughs in the blue sky and knows what you are.

KARLENE.

Good-morning, Karlene. It's a very
Fine beautiful world we are in.
Well, you _do_ look as ripe as a berry;
And, pardon me, such a real chin!

And may I--Ah, thank you; the pleasure
Is mine; just one kiss by your ear!--
May I introduce myself as your
Most dutiful godfather, dear?

I have fumed, like champagne that is fizzy,
To pay my respects at your door.
But the publishers keep one _so_ busy.
Forgive my not calling before!

Karlene, you're a very small lady
To venture so far all alone;
Especially into so shady
A place as this planet has grown.

When _I_ now, my dear, was at _your_ age,
When nobody tried to be rich,
But lived on high thinking and porridge
(And didn't know t' other from which!),

For a girl to go out unattended
Was considered "not only unwise
And improper--" Our grandmothers ended
By lifting to heaven their eyes.

And yet even now, though it's shocking
To slander these wonderful years,
I dare say an inch of black stocking
Could set all the world by the ears.

Black, mind you, not blue! It's a trifle;
But trifling in stockings won't do;
For love has an eye like a rifle
(His bandage is slipping askew).

But there! You are simply _too_ charming.
No doubt you'll be modern enough
(Though the speed of the world is