The Garden

They planted lilies where they might, A drift of Vestals slim and tall, That lined these winding paths with white, That filled the court from wall to wall.

They shrank from savage, splendid heat, As from their teasing fires of Hell-- Only when morns and eves were sweet They walked and liked their garden well.

Slow moving through a pallid mist, Always in black, in black they came, With busy rosary on wrist ... And all the summer world aflame!

I planted flowers that know the sun, I brought them in from field and stream, I passed not by the smallest one That pleased me with a yellow gleam; Then in a hidden chest I found The marvel of an old brocade-- Strange figures on an azure ground, With threads of crimson overlaid,

And when the noon is fierce and bright, Along the garden, fold on fold, My silken splendor like a light I trail between the aisles of gold.