There is a garden enclosed
— In the high places,
But never hath love reposed
— In its bowery spaces;
And the cedars there like shadows
— O'er the moonlit champaign stand
— Till light like an angel's hand
— — Touches Wild Eden.
Who told me the name of the garden
— That lieth remote, apart,
I know not, nor whence was the music
— That sang it into my heart;
But just as the loud robin tosses
— His notes from the elm tops high,
As the violets come in the mosses
— When south winds wake and sigh,
So on my lips I found it,
— This name that is made my cry.
There, under the stars and the dawns
— Of the virginal valleys,
White lilies flood the low lawns
— And the rose lights the alleys;
But never are heard there the voices
— That sweeten on lovers' lips,
— And the wild bee never sips
— — Sweets of Wild Eden.
But who hath shown me the vision
— Of the roses and lilies in ranks
I would that I knew, that forever
— To him I might render thanks;
For a maiden grows there in her blossom,
— In the place of her maidenhood,
Nor knows how her virgin bosom
— Is stored with the giving of good,
For the truth is hidden from her
— That of love is understood.
No bird with his mate there hovers,
— Nor beside her has trilled or sung;
No bird in the dewy covers
— Has built a nest for his young;
And over the dark-leaved mountains
— The voice in the laurel sleeps;
— And the moon broods on the deeps
— — Shut in Wild Eden.
O Love, if thou in thy hiding
— Art he who above me stands,
If thou givest wings to my spirit,
— If thou art my heart and my hands, —
Through the morn, through the noon, through the even
— That burns with thy planet of light,
Through the moonlit space of heaven,
— Guide thou my flight
Till, star-like on the dark garden,
— I fall in the night!
Fly, song of my bosom, unto it
— Wherever the earth breathes spring;
Though a thousand years were to rue it,
— Such a heart beats under thy wing,
Thou shalt dive, thou shalt soar, thou shalt find it,
— And forever my life be blest,
— Such a heart beats in my breast, —
— — Fly to Wild Eden!
— In the high places,
But never hath love reposed
— In its bowery spaces;
And the cedars there like shadows
— O'er the moonlit champaign stand
— Till light like an angel's hand
— — Touches Wild Eden.
Who told me the name of the garden
— That lieth remote, apart,
I know not, nor whence was the music
— That sang it into my heart;
But just as the loud robin tosses
— His notes from the elm tops high,
As the violets come in the mosses
— When south winds wake and sigh,
So on my lips I found it,
— This name that is made my cry.
There, under the stars and the dawns
— Of the virginal valleys,
White lilies flood the low lawns
— And the rose lights the alleys;
But never are heard there the voices
— That sweeten on lovers' lips,
— And the wild bee never sips
— — Sweets of Wild Eden.
But who hath shown me the vision
— Of the roses and lilies in ranks
I would that I knew, that forever
— To him I might render thanks;
For a maiden grows there in her blossom,
— In the place of her maidenhood,
Nor knows how her virgin bosom
— Is stored with the giving of good,
For the truth is hidden from her
— That of love is understood.
No bird with his mate there hovers,
— Nor beside her has trilled or sung;
No bird in the dewy covers
— Has built a nest for his young;
And over the dark-leaved mountains
— The voice in the laurel sleeps;
— And the moon broods on the deeps
— — Shut in Wild Eden.
O Love, if thou in thy hiding
— Art he who above me stands,
If thou givest wings to my spirit,
— If thou art my heart and my hands, —
Through the morn, through the noon, through the even
— That burns with thy planet of light,
Through the moonlit space of heaven,
— Guide thou my flight
Till, star-like on the dark garden,
— I fall in the night!
Fly, song of my bosom, unto it
— Wherever the earth breathes spring;
Though a thousand years were to rue it,
— Such a heart beats under thy wing,
Thou shalt dive, thou shalt soar, thou shalt find it,
— And forever my life be blest,
— Such a heart beats in my breast, —
— — Fly to Wild Eden!