ERIC DICKINSON
THE GARDEN
Blessed with the green of rains, charged sweet with scent of May,
The garden paths caressed her as she walked with slow foot-fall;
Slight was her frame, but took no pressure of decay,
And age had found age beautiful as when youth gave youth all.
Far over dreamy meadows bells toll the dying sun,
And a quiet is on her spirit for the tender drooping balm
Of the evening filled with perfume the spring has swiftly won,
And the rising moon that greets her in the garden of her calm.