Page:The Garden of Years.djvu/33



’T was in the garden, phantom-trod, of those

My younger years, when life before me lay,

That first I saw the flower of Love unclose

From fancy’s folded bud. Youth only knows

How tenderly I longed to pluck it! Nay,

I would not waken those dead hours to-day:

For Time’s consuming fire, with lambent lip,

Has kissed my fair frail flower, and so I may

Not touch with the most careful finger-tip

Its ashes, perfect as the unburnt rose.

From our Fate’s map of matters foreordained

Who of us all would rend the veil away—

See the sealed shrine of destiny profaned,

And all the awful ultima explained,

Arid so lose right to hope and need to pray?

Who is there of us all who would not say

That mystery is merciful? Too soon

Our roses droop, our limpid skies go gray,

And youth’s morn glooms to age’s afternoon:—

Let the lees lie until the wine be drained.