The path runs straight between the flowering rows, A moonlit path, hemmed in by beds of bloom, Where phlox and marigolds dispute for room With tall, red dahlias and the briar rose. 'T is reckless prodigality which throws Into the night these wafts of rich perfume Which sweep across the garden like a plume. Over the trees a single bright star glows. Dear garden of my childhood, here my years Have run away like little grains of sand; The moments of my life, its hopes and fears Have all found utterance here, where now I stand; My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears, You are my home, do you not understand?
Four Garden Songs
Song Cycle by Alec Roth (b. 1948)
1. The Fruit Garden Path  [sung text checked 1 time]
- by Amy Lowell (1874 - 1925), "The Fruit Garden Path" [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
2. At Night  [sung text checked 1 time]
The wind is singing through the trees to-night, A deep-voiced song of rushing cadences And crashing intervals. No summer breeze Is this, though hot July is at its height, Gone is her gentler music; with delight She listens to this booming like the seas, These elemental, loud necessities Which call to her to answer their swift might. Above the tossing trees shines down a star, Quietly bright; this wild, tumultuous joy Quickens nor dims its splendour. And my mind, O Star! is filled with your white light, from far, So suffer me this one night to enjoy The freedom of the onward sweeping wind.
- by Amy Lowell (1874 - 1925), "At Night" [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
3. Left Behind  [sung text checked 1 time]
White phlox and white hydrangeas, High, thin clouds, A low, warm sun. So it is this afternoon, But the phlox will be a drift of petals, And the hydrangeas stained and fallen Before you come again. I cannot look at the flowers, Nor the lifting leaves of the trees. Without you, there is no garden, No bright colours, No shining leaves. There is only space, Stretching endlessly forward - And I walk, bent, unseeing, Waiting to catch the first faint scuffle Of withered leaves.
- by Amy Lowell (1874 - 1925), "Left Behind" [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
4. Late September  [sung text checked 1 time]
Tang of fruitage in the air; Red boughs bursting everywhere; Shimmering of seeded grass; Hooded gentians all amass. Warmth of earth, and cloudless wind Tearing off the husky rind, Blowing feathered seeds to fall By the sun-baked, sheltering wall. Beech trees in a golden haze; Hardy sumachs all ablaze, Glowing through the silver birches. How that pine tree shouts and lurches! From the sunny door-jamb high, Swings the shell of a butterfly. Scrape of insect violins Through the stubble shrilly dins. Every blade's a minaret Where a small muezzin's set, Loudly calling us to pray At the miracle of day. Then the purple-lidded night Westering comes, her footsteps light Guided by the radiant boon Of a sickle-shaped new moon.
- by Amy Lowell (1874 - 1925), "Late September" [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]