Down the long garden-walk I slowly went, A little wind was stirring in the trees; I only saw the whitest of the flowers, And I was sorry that the earlier hours Of that fair evening had been so ill spent, Because I said, "I am content with these Dear friends of mine who only speak to me With their delicious fragrance, and who tell To me their gracious welcome silently."
The leaves that touch my hand with dew are wet; I find the tall white lilies I love well. I linger as I pass the mignonette, And what surprise could clearer be than this: To find my sweet rose waiting with a kiss!
There is a hillside garden that their tender hands have tended, Below a house that holds for me a shrine of joy and light. And there beneath a cloudless sun when June is warm and splendid I see them coming home to me, three girls in garments white.
Alice with lilies in her hands, and little dark Dolores Showing her glowing marigolds; and Iris last of all Under the arbor by the wall of purple morning-glories, Bringing my crimson ramblers back that sought to scale the wall.
Alice with smiles along her lips; Dolores still and tender; Iris whose eyes can tell me more than tongue shall ever say; They offer to my open arms their bodies soft and slender, Bringing the best of summer here, they garlanded to-day.
Into my study they have swept, and brasses from Benares, Vases from Venice they have filled, and hung their wreaths around The portrait where their mother smiles like the tall tranquil Maries That Perugino used to paint, with hair like sunlight crowned.
"Mother is coming home to-day." (The words themselves are singing.) "How long it is," our litany, forgotten, they repeat, Making their last response to love, their last oblation bringing Till at the hour of evensong, their voices still more sweet, Tremble and sanctify the house where happy hearts shall meet.
When to the garden of untroubled thought I came of late, and saw the open door, And wished again to enter, and explore The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, It seemed some purer voice must speak before I dared to tread that garden loved of yore, That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.