Do not fear,
The garden is yours;
And it is yours to gather the fruits,
And every flower of every kind,
And to set the high wall about it
And the closed gates.
The gates of your wall no hand shall open,
No feet shall pass,
Through all the days until you return to me.
Do not fear.

But soon,
Soon let it be, your coming!
For the pathways grow desolate waiting,
The flowers say, " Our loveliness has no eyes to behold it! "
The leaves murmur all day with longing,
All night the boughs of the trees
Sway themselves with longing.
O master of the garden,
O my sun and rain and dew. . . .