‘Then Death bethought him of his beautiful garden where the red and white roses bloom.’
I HAVE longed for thy beautiful garden,
The mansion of twilight rooms,
The region of placid faces,
And flowers, that grow from tombs.
I have longed for thy beautiful garden,
With the longing of great desire—
Who have walked in barren places,
Till my feet are shod with fire.
I have longed for thy beautiful garden,
Whose raiment is woven with sighs,
And a veil of great lamentation
Is shed as a mist on thine eyes.
I have longed for thy beautiful garden,
And thy nuptial winding-sheet,
For thy face, ah! tender lover,
Is gentle and wellnigh sweet.