THERE is a garden, made for our delight, Where all the dreams we dare not dream come true. I know it, but I do not know the way. We slip and stumble in the doubtful night, Where everything is difficult and new, And clouds our breath has made obscure the day. The blank, unhappy towns, where sick men strive, Still doing work that yet is never done, The hymns to Gold that drown their desperate voice: The weeds that grow where once corn stood alive, The black injustice that puts out the sun; These are our portion, since they are our choice. Yet there the garden blows, with rose on rose, The sunny shadow-dappled lawns are there, There the immortal lilies, heavenly-sweet. Oh roses that for us shall not unclose! Oh lilies that we shall not pluck or wear! Oh dewy lawns untrodden by our feet! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EVENEN IN THE VILLAGE by WILLIAM BARNES HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX by ROBERT BROWNING THE SLAVE SINGING AT MIDNIGHT by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW TO THE UNKNOWN EROS: BOOK 2: 7. TO THE BODY by COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE FOR 'THE WINE OF CIRCE' (BY EDWARD BURNE JONES) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI WHITTIER by MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON SANGSTER |