Poems (Kimball)/In the Garden

by Harriet McEwen Kimball

THE GARDEN.

IN this still garden in the cool of day
    I often meditate:—
Should He who walked in Eden come this way
    And consecrate
This place of bloom with Presence passing fair
And robes that make more sweet this summer air!

Anon a Voice far of yet near I catch
    And question,—Comes He now?
The virgin lilies that for Him keel watch
    Do lowly bow,
And the meek grasses lowlier yet to greet
His soft approach and reverent kiss His feet.

But as for me who cannot see Him pass
    Yet fain would feel Him near,
I bow me lowlier even than the grass,
    In love and fear;
Far lowlier than the lilies on their stem,
And through them press to touch His garment's hem!

More softly blows the summer wind to lift
    His mantle's sacred fold;
Through all the place sweet sighs and odors drift
    Like bliss half-told;
And in the fading west a single star
Trembles with rapture watching Him afar!

And oh, that I should see that star remote
    Yet His near Glory miss
Whereto the sun itself and stars do float
    As motes, I wis!
But since no man that Glory could abide,
How should I dare lament the sight denied!

Dark, hushed and dark, the garden round me grows,
    The folded flowers more sweet;
I hearken long to hear Him where He goes
    With noiseless feet,
Till the familiar place seems sad and strange,
And Eden to Gethsemane doth change.

Through heavy silence falls the heavy dew
    Like sweat of sorrow wrung,
As if the bitter cup were filled anew
    O'er which He hung,
Whose Love all love transcending overcame,
For us endured the Cross, despised the shame!

Albeit against that Presence passing by
    These mortal eyes are sealed,
I see this Other, like Him, standing nigh,
    To faith revealed:
At His dear feet on consecrated sod
I cry like one of old: "My Lord—my God!"