 | The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite |  |
68
THE SECRET GARDEN
Friends, it is fair in garden-bowers conceal'd,
When, round the high, fruit-heavy mural shield,
The white wind washes and the corn-fields roll;
But further still, in the wide world afield,
I found a secret garden of the soul.
When, round the high, fruit-heavy mural shield,
The white wind washes and the corn-fields roll;
But further still, in the wide world afield,
I found a secret garden of the soul.
O, there is morning glory on the sea,
And fragrant still at eve shall pinewoods be!
While night is grand on mountains, in the glow
And mystery of moonlight; but for me
One place reserve, of all the world I know!
And fragrant still at eve shall pinewoods be!
While night is grand on mountains, in the glow
And mystery of moonlight; but for me
One place reserve, of all the world I know!
So, having travell'd long, and fain to rest,
I keep that place a secret in my breast
And secret more than all one bower of love,
Where—sweeter far than Araby the blest—
My spikenard giveth forth the fumes thereof.
I keep that place a secret in my breast
And secret more than all one bower of love,
Where—sweeter far than Araby the blest—
My spikenard giveth forth the fumes thereof.
| The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite | |