The Garden

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.