Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/68

 ’Tis said, by Angel-footsteps Such garden-paths are trod— Angels, the sky forsaking, Tend every blossom, making A pleasure-place for God.

—I have walk’d in some such garden. How well it was, how meet! Yet, down each alley shining, With tears I wander’d, pining For wild things round my feet!

Sweeter than thrush or robin, To me, the seagull’s scream; Fairer the blacken’d heather That fronts the bleak moor-weather, Than that soft garden-dream.