w, 
HAT! Tou are pitying me because I delve — 
And dig, and slave—you call it—in the earth1 
My garden is no penance, but my joy, 
My faith, my creed, — religion, if you will. 
What pictures are to artists, words to poets, 
And melody to singers—this and more — 
I worship in my garden here today. 
Worship and serve — wor\ my salvation out, 
And heal me of the bruises of the world! 
Tes, yes. I hear your church's eager chimes, 
But do you listen to the conquering note 
Which velvet hammers beat on lily bells, 
And calls—and calls me to the garden close ? 
White-robed the choristers of cosmos pass. 
And stately salvias chant a scarlet hymn. 
While marigolds play on their brassy pipes, 
And purple phlox give out a reverent note. 
Loo\ up! Loo\ up! The wind chants to the trees, 
My soul loo\s upward through my eyes, and sees 
The illimitable glory of the s\y. 
Tell me, are you so close to Heaven in any church ? 
This is the great cathedral of my soul. 
—EVE BRODLIQUE SUMMERS. 
