This world is one Gethsemane
Where all weep—die—still dream to be.
Flowers spring, birds sing in the young heart,
But Time spares not the flowers of Spring;
The birds that sang there soon depart,
And leave God’s altar withering—
Flowerless and no bird to sing.
God pronounced all things good in Eden;
Young Adam sang—not knowing evil,
Until the snake plucked fruit forbidden,