The growing’s finished. Down the garden ways
The Gardener comes, slow-trundling his barrow.
He brings a load of curious loamy mulch,
Brings tools that cut and stab the earth,
That lop the boughs from off full-blooded trees.
Under the falling leaves the Gardener stands,
Unshocked to see the tulip and the rose,
Red haw, brown seed-pod, lily staff and leaf—
All lying dead, extinguished, passionless.
The Gardener smiles to see the adventurous bee
Lying cold-killed under a broken stalk;
Smiles on a battered moth with frosted wing.
He spreads black clods of compost on the beds,
Sifts ashes all around the roots of trees,
Lops off, cuts back, prunes, digs away and kills.
Knowing how, out of the ruin and wreck,
Pure glowing things will come; new winged forms,
Trees that shall say new things to listening souls.
O Unseen Gardener of the World-tree, boughs
Ripe with strange star-fruit dropping in the fields
Of vast Space-gardens—give, Thou, me to learn
In simple ways, how, after this life’s dream
I may accept new growth, even to loss
Of this life-consciousness—to help Thy plan!
Become, for Thee, a dried-up flower cup,
A butterfly unwingéd, broken-plumed,
Even a blinded, helpless, light-killed moth—
So that I nourish forth new growing things
In the star branchéd garden of deep Time!
Grant that this brain, that dares to dream of Thee,
As Father, Friend—taught of the sentient flowers,
Shall dream—dream on to some far endless end!