The Nun's Garden

They have made me a lovely garden With walls that are rugged and gray; They have filled it with pinks and roses And lilies that bloom but a day; But the walls are so high and frowning, And the paths are so smooth and straight, And even their smallest winding Leads straight to the chapel gate.

I have planted a bed of pansies Along by the chapel wall, But though I have watered and weeded They never have blossomed at all. The sunshine of God cannot fall there, For the chapel tower is too high; So under its cold, gray shadow My poor little blossoms die.

The Mother of God--in marble-- Gleams white where the willows toss, And at the far end of the pathway The dear Christ hangs on the cross; And when the vespers are over, If I have not sinned all day, I may walk to the end of the garden And kneel by the cross and pray.

But oh, for the wild, wild garden That I knew in the days gone by, Where the birches and elms and maples Stretched up to the wind-swept sky; Where, murmuring silver music, The brook through the ferny dell Ran down to the fields of clover,-- But hush, there's the vesper bell!