The Garden Of Youth

From the depths of a garden,
Where scents of heliotrope linger,
And little golden-dusted blossoms nod,
Where the shadows write
Their merriment upon the flags,
And the vine-garlands wave their clinging arms;
Ah, from the pit of such a garden
I would draw new strength. I would
Lay by the soiled garment of the day.
I would become new, young; mine eyes
Darkly proclaiming their emptiness;
And I, a little child, would stand
Within the garden's pit,
Letting the words of God's wisdom
Whisper from the tips of the flower's tongues,
And I, listening, would no wiser be;
But new dreams of stuff most tenuous would
Have flowed, like a phantom pageantry into me;
And I, looking with my night-dark eyes
Upon the sun, lingering in the deep sky,
Would speak no word of reproaching for
The speeding time; for I, youthed, yea, youthed,
Would know the wisdom of waiting! And tomorrow?
Oh tomorrow! Why, tomorrow is eons hence!
And yesterday? Oh yesterday!
I lost her completely. But today is here
In the garden, and the pit of its sweetness,
And the words I have yet to learn.
Keep me, Oh God, thus!
Let not Tomorrow trouble,
Nor Yesterday cast its shadow.
Keep me within the garden's pit of my soul,
Shut from the day's contamination-
A little child with much to learn.