Gardens are not made by singing “Oh, how beautiful,” and sitting in the shade.

Rudyard Kipling, English Novelist

. . .

Within the garden that flowers adorn I stood,

To break the winds that whisper, alone I stood.

.

O Deceit you deseed my produce of passion,

In the garden, with no seeds to be sown, I stood.

.

Persephone’s flame singes my futile harvest,

In a crimson blaze of red, where bark groaned, I stood.

.

Why must trees so carefully cultured turn to ash?

In the dry graveyard of sin, to atone, I stood.

.

Smoke arose from the smouldering fire now spent,

Among charred black wood where my dreams were borne, I stood.

.

Teary eyed, turned the clouds that cried a gentle rain,

Among teary cloud-drops, sad and forlorn, I stood.

.

The Garden is empty now, no one stands within,

Eden I am, in whose green robes once grown, I stood.

. . .

Granville D. Austin