Alien and scarred, you faced the auction crowd. I brought you where my garden roses are, Because I dreamed you sighed for sun and cloud, For soft wind, bird and tree, for friendly star. By text and hymn your solemn past was bound; Would you have back the church that shut you in, And hear again the long prayer's droning sound? The bird will sing for mirth, not pardoned sin, And you will feel the glow of each new day, The touch of mist at dusk, the white moonlight Will find your place; while sometimes, at their play, Gay butterflies may brush your sides in flight. Forget the tangled creeds, the tolling bell, And rest, content. A garden knows God well. |