The Garden of Saint Rose

This is a holy refuge, The garden of Saint Rose, A fragrant altar to that peace The world no longer knows.

Below a solemn hillside, Within the folding shade Of overhanging beech and pine Its walls and walks are laid.

Cool through the heat of summer, Still as a sacred grove, It has the rapt unworldly air Of mystery and love.

All day before its outlook The mist-blue mountains loom, And in its trees at tranquil dusk The early stars will bloom.

Down its enchanted borders Glad ranks of color stand, Like hosts of silent seraphim Awaiting love's command.

Lovely in adoration They wait in patient line, Snow-white and purple and deep gold About the rose-gold shrine.

And there they guard the silence, While still from her recess Through sun and shade Saint Rose looks down In mellow loveliness.

She seems to say, "O stranger, Behold how loving care That gives its life for beauty's sake, Makes everything more fair!

"Then praise the Lord of gardens For tree and flower and vine, And bless all gardeners who have wrought A resting place like mine!"