The Garden of Saint Rose

This is a holy refuge,

The garden of Saint Rose,

A fragrant altar to that peace

The world no longer knows.

Below a solemn hillside,

Within the folding shade

Of overhanging beech and pine

Its walls and walks are laid.

Cool through the heat of summer,

Still as a sacred grove,

It has the rapt unworldly air

Of mystery and love.

All day before its outlook

The mist-blue mountains loom,

And in its trees at tranquil dusk

The early stars will bloom.

Down its enchanted borders

Glad ranks of color stand,

Like hosts of silent seraphim

Awaiting love's command.

Lovely in adoration

They wait in patient line,

Snow-white and purple and deep gold

About the rose-gold shrine.

And there they guard the silence,

While still from her recess

Through sun and shade Saint Rose looks down

In mellow loveliness.

She seems to say, “O stranger,

Behold how loving care

That gives its life for beauty's sake,

Makes everything more fair!

“Then praise the Lord of gardens

For tree and flower and vine,

And bless all gardeners who have wrought

A resting place like mine!”