WILD
GARDEN
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This
is a garden wild and sweet,
Where gray-mossed ledges lie out in the sun
Amid scented fern in the August heat,
On the mountain side where lone trails run
Through splashes of aster and goldenrod |
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In
clearings sown by the hand of God.
Here
we pass with moccasined tread
In the friendship of earth, through the glory
of morn,
With the lore of the learned little read,
To the gladness and wisdom of love free-born,
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Wild
hearts beating and hushed before
The lowered bars and the Open Door.
The
sunlight sleeps on the purple hill,
The world is a-dream in dim blue haze,
Even the poplar leaves are still,
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As
is aware of a day of days
Vouchsafed the creatures of earth to employ
In the wonder of life, in the fulness of joy.
The
maple leaves are beginning to turn
To scarlet and gold, the victorious hues.
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The
topmost summits in splendor burn
To signal the world their mystic news,
The gospel of beauty that will survive
The clamorous doubts of all alive.
For
what is the sacrament sense receives,
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When
the new moon hangs in the purple pine
And silence speaks and the heart believes,
But a portal that leads to the inner shrine?
And our hermit thrush at his evening psalm
Is celebrant of that holy calm. |
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Here radiant pilgrims have smiled and passed,
The seed of Shamballah, the angels of Earth,
Swayed by the breath of a heavenly vast,
In lovely ardor and fadeless worth,
For Love is Lord of the Seraphim |
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| And
heaven and earth are one to him. |
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