The Garden

 There is a fenceless garden overgrown 
With buds and blossoms and all sorts of leaves; 
And once, among the roses and the sheaves, 
The Gardener and I were there alone.
 
He led me to the plot where I had thrown
The fennel of my days on wasted ground, 
And in that riot of sad weeds I found 
The fruitage of a life that was my own.
 

My life! Ah, yes, there was my life, indeed! 
And there were all the lives of humankind;
And they were like a book that I could read, 
Whose every leaf, miraculously signed, 
Outrolled itself from Thought’s eternal seed.
 
Love-rooted in God’s garden of the mind.

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