Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/375

 He came to greet them where they were, And he too was a Gardener: He stood between these gentle men, He stayed a little while, and then The land was all for Oliver.

'Tis Oliver who tills alone Two gardens that are now his own; 'Tis Oliver who sows and reaps And listens, while the other sleeps, For songs undreamed of and unknown.

'Tis he, the gentle anchorite, Who listens for them day and night; But most he hears them in the dawn, When from his trees across the lawn Birds ring the chorus of the light.

He cannot sing without the voice, But he may worship and rejoice For patience in him to remain, The chosen heir of age and pain, Instead of Oakes—who had no choice.

'Tis Oliver who sits beside The other's grave at eventide, And smokes, and wonders what new race Will have two gardens, by God's grace, In Linndale, where their fathers died.

And often, while he sits and smokes, He sees the ghost of gentle Oakes Uprooting, with a restless hand, Soft, shadowy flowers in a land Of asphodels and artichokes.