Oh, dear my garden, where the fruit
  Of lovely knowledge sweetly springs,
  How jealously you guard the root
  Of all enlightening things!

AT PARTING.

  AND you could leave me now—
  After the first remembered whispered vow
  Which sings for ever and ever in my ears—
  The vow which God among His Angels hears—
  After the long-drawn years,
  The slow hard tears,
  Could break new ground, and wake
  A new strange garden to blossom for your sake,
  And leave me here alone,
  In the old garden that was once our own?

  How should I learn to bear
  Our garden's pleasant ways and pleasant air,
  Her flowers, her fruits, her lily, her rose and thorn,
  When only in a picture these appear—
  These, once alive, and always over-dear?
  Ah—think again: the rose you used to wear
  Must still be more than other roses be
  The flower of flowers. Ah, pity, pity me!

  For in my acres is no plot of ground
  Whereon could any garden site be found,
  I have but little skill
  To water weed and till
  And make the desert blossom like the rose;
  Yet our old garden knows
  If I have loved its ways and walks and kept
  The garden watered, and the pleasance swept.

  Yet—if you must—go now:
  Go, with my blessing filling both your hands,
  And, mid the desert sands
  Whic