The Garden
Lola Ridge
Bountiful Givers, I look along the years And see the flowers you threw… Anemones And sprigs of gray Sparse heather of the rocks, Or a wild violet Or daisy of a daisied field… But each your best. I might have worn them on my breast To wilt in the long day… I might have stemmed them in a narrow vase And watched each petal sallowing… I might have held them so—mechanically— Till the wind winnowed all the leaves And left upon my hands A little smear of dust. Instead I hid them in the soft warm loam Of a dim shadowed place… Deep In a still cool grotto, Lit only by the memories of stars And the wide and luminous eyes Of dead poets That love me and that I love… Deep… deep… Where none may see—not even ye who gave— About my soul your garden beautiful.
