IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



And all blood-riot falters 



Before those faces there; 

 Bowed down at quiet altars, 



Mine hours are monks at prayer. 



Oh through my spirit kneeling, 

 The silence thrills and sings 



The cosmic brother feeling 

 Of growing, hopeful things; 



Old soothing Earth a mother, 

 A sire the stooping Blue; 



The Sun a mighty Brother 

 And God is in the dew. 



Oh, Garden hushed and splendid 



With lily, star and tree! 

 There all wild dreams are ended 

 Oh, come with me! 



JOHN G. NEIHARDT. 



The Fugitive Glory. 



[62] 



