The Garden

And now it is all to be done over again, And what will come of it only God can know. What has become of the furrows ploughed by pain, And the plants set row on row ?

Where are the lines of beautiful bending trees, The gracious springs, the depths of delicate shade, The sunny spaces loud with the humming of bees, And the grassy paths in the garden my life had made?

Lightning and earthquake now have blasted and riven ; Even the trees that I trusted could not stand: Now it lies here to the bitter winds of heaven, A barren and a desolated land.