When I am old, so very old
That all my own have passed away,
And I await Life's evening-gold,
A little figure, lone and grey;
I'll keep a garden, green and bright,
Then I'll forget approaching night.
A garden dear—with quaint-cut yews—
Bound by a hedge of bronzing beech,
And just before them I shall choose
The great white lilies that beseech,
With upturned faces, pure and staid,
Love from the little Mother Maid.
And close beside the lichened wall,
Lilies, aflame like scarlet fire,
Shall watch the little swallows fall
From out their nestlet in the byre;
And where the path strays to the stream,
The golden ones shall dying dream.
Then where the garden greets the wood,
A host of lily-bells shall ring
Their message clear that "all is good
Where God reigns over everything."
My garden-beauty, all shall see,
Is mirrored from Eternity.
A GARDEN IN AIREDALE.