I know a garden, green and sweet,
Where thrush and skylark sing;
A garden far from mart and street.
From dust and heat and clamoring.
Clear is the light that lingers there,
And soft the breeze that stirs;
Cool fountains flash, and flowers rare;
And angels are its gardeners.
Over the hill the long road winds,
Beyond the river's bend;
Yet he who follows ever finds
The smiling garden at the end.
Therein his worries, wants, and woes
He doffs—a grievous load;
Then forth he fares to succor those
Who faint or wander from the road.
Fragrance and joy are in his breast,
The garden's dewy dower—
Lilacs of light, roses of rest.
And harps that ring with primal power.
These gifts he shares—his golden fleece—
With all the weary throng,
And visions of the garden-peace
Are theirs, and echoes of its song;
Visions and echoes clear that guide
On to the radiant goal,
Where storms break not nor sorrows chide—
The sweet, green garden-deeps of Soul.
