In a Garden
Oh, what soft wings shall rise above this place,
This little garden of spiced bergamot,
Poppy and iris and forget-me-not,
On Doomsday, to the ghostly throne of space!
The haunting wings, most like the visible trace
Of passing azure in a shadowy spot ---
The wings of spirits, native to this plot,
Returning to their intermitted Grace!
And one shall mingle in her cloudy hair
Blossoms of twilight, dark as her dark eyes;
And one to Heaven upon her arm shall bear
Colors of what she was in her first birth;
And all shall carry upward through the skies
Odor and dew of the familiar earth.
= Doug Ross