A City Garden

God of the flowers, Painter of crimson roses, Spinner of mist, and Weaver of wind and rain, Send Thine angel of peace, when the long day closes, To Thy garden again.

This was Thy garden e'er the high walls were lifted; Here the wild apple grew, and the thornset pear; Oh, in the springtime how the scent of them drifted Out on the evening air!

Still an apple-tree lingers—just as a token; Still there's a sumach wearing one feathery plume; Yonder a dogwood lives—grey with the years, and broken— Dreaming of silver bloom.

Mignonette lines the walk, and many a pansy,— Though never a bee comes near to taste their sweet— Down by the gate grows tangled and bitter tansy, Longing to reach the street.

Here at the heart of tumult, and toil and malice, The lover finds his love—the dreamer his dream; And here, like a cup of Heaven, a lily's chalice Lifts to the white moonbeam!