THE GARDEN.
IN spring She made a garden, near an orchard on a hill, And half that garden's Providence, the rest is all Free Will. It's Providence that plants the flowers, pure luck that kills the weeds ; She planned to make it beautiful, and wild birds brought the seeds.
Green beeches whisper round it, and a river sings below A song of pools and shallows, where the herons come and go. There's incense like St. Peter's on a wayward Devon breeze, And infinite lamenting of the doves among the trees.
Outside the wall of broken stone wild hinds are wooed by stags; Inside the sunlight lingers on the lavender and flags.
And nothing has an enemy where flowers and weeds are grown; The Gospel of that garden is, leave all the nests alone.
Far better than all gardens is a garden of a mood— Columbus might have found it, and, in finding, understood. The wanderers in waste places they can feel and understand The spirit of deep quiet in the commune that she planned.
If I was King of England, and I lost my golden crown, If I was Mayor of London, and they hunted me from Town, I'd seek the secret garden, and the hidden place that She Gave for a joy to birds and flowers, and men God made like me.
BEN KENDIM.
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