Sunday Morning Peace
I know a garden with a loveliness
Deeper than eye can see or indrawn breath
Canmeasure rightly. Ancient centuries press
Against its walls till time is gone and death
Is lost in fragrance of the lavender
That grows serenely by a lichened stile.
Basil, rosemary, marjoram are there,
And savory, whose blossoms lift a smile
Beside a dripping pool. There silver sage
and lads-love, that all our mothers knew
And pressed for s in many a yellowed page.
Woodruff is there, mint, caraway, and rue.
Old flowers are lovely, lovelier still are these
Sweet-scented herbs near box and cedar trees.
--Catherine ate Coblentz