The garden of desire

by Edna Worthley Underwood

XII

Unto that little garden sometimes, Love,

I hasten yet to—to—yes, to forget—

Tell all its quaintnesses again and let

Myself learn peace of her who knew not love.

Yes, yes, unto that garden sometimes, Love,

I hasten yet to—to—yes, to forget—

To feel its dear, deep calm again and let

Hover above my heart Youth’s white, white dove.

No, no!—you need not worry lest I stay,