The Garden

In the restless garden of my heart, The flowers bloom and fade away, Yet every petal plays its part, In the tapestry of Nature’s play.

The rose and thistle stand apart, Each tells its tale of joy and pain, Though life is but a fleeting art, The memories of beauty remain.

And when the dews refresh the morn, The sun will rise and chase the night, But in my garden, grief is born, And hope rekindles lost delight.

• Mary Elizabeth Coleridge