Amiel’s Garden
His Garden! His bright candelabra trees
En fête. His lilacs steeped in joy! His sky
Limpid and blue! The same flecked shadows lie
Athwart this path he paced. His reveries
Float in the air. His moods, his ecstasies
Still linger charmed. Pale butterflies flit by—
Were one his soul it had not found on high
Banquet more choice than those infinities
He daily knew. And now no one to hear
The hovering hours, the singing grass, to feel
The wrinkles of the soul smooth out, to see
God’s shadow bend down from eternity—
His garden empty! Yet I gently steal
Lest I disturb his dreams still smiling near.
Gertrude Huntington McGiffert