Classic Poem

Shut from the dusty way
Wherein I walk each day,
By a mere paling, only shoulder-high,
A bit of garden lies
Unseen by careless eyes,
Yet never missed by mine, as I pass by.

Though noontide's fervent heat
Pervade the sandy street,
And scorching pavements render back the glow,
Freshness and shade abound
In that enchanted ground,
And cool, sweet odors from its silence flow.

Even when fierce dog-days
Send down their hottest blaze,
The air seems moist and soft as early June;
The leaves, unwilted, keep
Their crisp, cool, rustling sweep,
And dewdrops linger until afternoon.

Encircled by a crowd
Of flowers, less bright and proud,
The stately foxglove lifts its veined bells;
The pansy's brilliant face
Looks up, with quaint grimace,
Out of the cool, damp shadow where it dwells.

There flutter winged sweet-peas,
And larkspurs tempt the bees
With pyramids of purple-petalled bloom;
Lilies seem native there,
And roses balm the air
Where late the lilac waved its perfumed plume.

There nestles mignonette,
Not beautiful, but yet
Holding an inner grace that shuns the sight;
Unnoticed, but content
To please with subtile scent,
And bless the noon with wafts of rare delight,

Proving how poorer far
External beauties are
Than some fine fragrance of the soul may be,
Which, spite of noise and heat,
Makes dusty ways more sweet,
Though few perceive its patient ministry.

But though this paradise
So near the highway lies,
Its beauties bloom unseen by almost all;
The heedless human tide
That ebbs and flows outside,
Sweeps blindly by its bare, brown breadth of wall.

Musing, I sometimes ask,
" Is there, behind the mask
Of those I meet, cold-eyed and blank of face,
A realm enclosed apart,
A noble, tender heart,
Like this shut garden, full of bloom and grace? "

Perhaps their alien eyes
Serve only to disguise
The spirit's beauty, and so wrong it all;
And visions of delight
Would meet my wondering sight,
Could I but look beyond the boundary wall.