Sometimes I hear a man with joyless face
And eyes dark-shadowed by the stress of days
Rail at the cruel quickness of the pace
We lead, the time-driv'n passion of men's ways.
I would he had a fragrant garden plot
Wherein to walk when dark begins to fall;
Wherein to dream when August winds are hot;
And where the first birds of the morning call.
I have a garden, and when day's long fight
Has worn from me the freshness of my strength,
I walk within it in the fading light;
I sit within the shadow's cooling length.
Make you a garden; when the world is gray,
Walk there and dream there at the end of day.