Oak Hill

There are roses of passionate perfume

In the gardens under the hill,

Red-lipped and rich with the honey,

That the brown bee sips at will.

Lightly their breath is blowing

Wherever the west wind flies,

A part of the breathing rapture

Of laughter and kisses and sighs.

But here, where the silence is perfect

As in undiscovered lands,

The lilies are crowding like sainted souls,

With their gold harps in their hands.

And I think if the Lord, at cool of day,

Should again with his servants tread,

It is here that his feet would linger,—

In this Garden of the Dead!