Her Garden
This friendly garden, with its fragrant roses,—
It was not ours, when she was here below;
And so, in that low bed where she reposes,
The beauty of it all she cannot know.
But in the evening when the birds are calling
The fragrance rises like a breath of myrrh,
And in my empty heart, benignly falling,
Becomes a little prayer to send to her.
So, in that silent, lonely bed that holds her,
Where nevermore the shadows rise or flee,
I think a dream of radiant spring enfolds her—
Of bloom and bird and bending bough... and me.
Louis Dodge