The Lost Garden

There was a fair green garden slopingFrom the south-east side of the mountain-ledge;And the earliest tint of the dawn came gropingDown through its paths, from the day's dim edge.The bluest skies and the reddest rosesArched and varied its velvet sod;And the glad birds sang, as the soul supposesThe angels sing on the hills of God.

I wandered there when my veins seemed burstingWith life's rare rapture and keen delight,And yet in my heart was a constant thirstingFor something over the mountain-height.I wanted to stand in the blaze of gloryThat turned to crimson the peaks of snow,And the winds from the west all breathed a storyOf realms and regions I longed to know.

I saw on the garden's south side growingThe brightest blossoms that breathe of June;I saw in the east how the sun was glowing,And the gold air shook with a wild bird's tune;I heard the drip of a silver fountain,And the pulse of a young laugh throbbed with gleeBut still I looked out over the mountainWhere unnamed wonders awaited me.

I came at last to the western gateway,That led to the path I longed to climb;But a shadow fell on my spirit straightway,For close at my side stood gray-beard Time.I paused, with feet that were fain to linger,Hard by that garden's golden gate,But Time spoke, pointing with one stern finger;"Pass on," he said, "for the day grows late."

And now on the chill gray cliffs I wander,The heights recede which I thought to find,And the light seems dim on the mountain yonder,When I think of the garden I left behind.Should I stand at last on its summit's splendor,I know full well it would not repayFor the fair lost tints of the dawn so tenderThat crept up over the edge o' day.

I would go back, but the ways are winding,If ways there are to that land, in sooth,For what man succeeds in ever findingA path to the garden of his lost youth?But I think sometimes, when the June stars glisten,That a rose scent drifts from far away,And I know, when I lean from the cliffs and listen,That a young laugh breaks on the air like spray.