THE ISHMAELITE
Some men have souls like gardens,—
Fair plots of fruitful ground,
Smooth lawns and ways well-order’d,
With chosen blossoms border’d,
And walls to fence them round.
O still and safe and fragrant!
Kind homes of peace and love!
All things uncouth excluding,
Free only to the brooding
Of the great sky above!
’Tis said, by Angel-footsteps
Such garden-paths are trod—
Angels, the sky forsaking,
Tend every blossom, making
A pleasure-place for God.
—I have walk’d in some such garden.
How well it was, how meet!
Yet, down each alley shining,
With tears I wander’d, pining
For wild things round my feet!
Sweeter than thrush or robin,
To me, the seagull’s scream;
Fairer the blacken’d heather
That fronts the bleak moor-weather,
Than that soft garden-dream.
Oh, peace is not so precious,
Perchance, as is distress!
Forbid Thine Angels, Father,
To tend me—keep Thou rather
One unwall’d wilderness!