The
Garden of Saint Rose
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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,
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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,
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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
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| The
early stars will bloom.
Down its enchanted borders
Glad ranks of color stand,
Like hosts of silent seraphim
Awaiting love’s command.
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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,
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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
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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
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| A resting
place like mine!" |
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