THE GARDEN

Bountiful Givers,

I look along the years

And see the flowers you threw...

Anemones

And sprigs of gray

Sparse heather of the rocks,

Or a wild violet

Or daisy of a daisied field...

But each your best.

I might have worn them on my breast

To wilt in the long day...

I might have stemmed them in a narrow vase

And watched each petal sallowing...

I might have held them so — mechanically —

Till the wind winnowed all the leaves

And left upon my hands

A little smear of dust.

Instead

I hid them in the soft warm loam

Of a dim shadowed place...

Deep

In a still cool grotto,

Lit only by the memories of stars

And the wide and luminous eyes

Of dead poets

That love me and that I love...

Deep... deep...

Where none may see — not even ye who gave —

About my soul your garden beautiful.