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Ella Wheeler Wilcox - The Lost Garden
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There was a fair green garden sloping

From the south-east side of the mountain-ledge;

And the earliest tint of the dawn came groping

Down through its paths, from the day`s dim edge.

The bluest skies and the reddest roses

Arched and varied its velvet sod;

And the glad birds sang, as the soul supposes

The angels sing on the hills of God.

I wandered there when my veins seemed bursting

With life`s rare rapture and keen delight,

And yet in my heart was a constant thirsting

For something over the mountain-height.

I wanted to stand in the blaze of glory

That turned to crimson the peaks of snow,

And the winds from the west all breathed a story

Of realms and regions I longed to know.

I saw on the garden`s south side growing

The brightest blossoms that breathe of June;

I saw in the east how the sun was glowing,

And the gold air shook with a wild bird`s tune;

I heard the drip of a silver fountain,

And the pulse of a young laugh throbbed with glee

But still I looked out over the mountain

Where unnamed wonders awaited me.

I came at last to the western gateway,

That led to the path I longed to climb;

But a shadow fell on my spirit straightway,

For close at my side stood gray-beard Time.

I paused, with feet that were fain to linger,

Hard by that garden`s golden gate,

But Time spoke, pointing with one stern finger;

"Pass on," he said, "for the day groes late."

And now on the chill giay cliffs I wander,

The heights recede which I thought to find,

And the light seems dim on the mountain yonder,

When I think of the garden I left behind.

Should I stand at last on its summit`s splendor,

I know full well it would not repay

For the fair lost tints of the dawn so tender

That crept up over the edge o` day.

I would go back, but the ways are winding,

If ways there are to that land, in sooth,

For what man succeeds in ever finding

A path to the garden of his lost youth?

But I think sometimes, when the June stars glisten,

That a rose scent dufts from far away,

And I know, when I lean from the cliffs and listen,

That a young laugh breaks on the air like spray.
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