The Gardener of Sinope
Thus spake he to the gardener:
"All the flowers thy garden has
That be chiefly sweet and fair
Gather them to make a wreath,
Many a fragrant wreath and rare,
To bring with thee to Paradise—"
Then all they vanished from his eyes
And Phocas felt the dark like Death—
Thereupon he took his spade
And underneath the pleasant shade
Of apple boughs a grave he made.
When his gravemaking was done
There was some time till rise of sun.
Till then he walked amid his flowers.
The friends of many summer hours.
And bade farewell to every one.
And from all his flowers he chose
Bluest violet, reddest rose,
Peonies and Aaron-rod,
Pinks and wallflowers, columbines.
Ferns and tendrils of wild vines.
And lilies for the mother of God.
And having chosen and woven them
To many a wreath and anadem.
He laid them in the grave, and went
Back to his house, at peace, content.
But when he entered at the door
A pang ran through his heart, because
He knew so well the roof, the floor.
The home-made walls, the little flaws
In workmanship, the friendly air
Of all the things that made him there
A home more dear than palaces;
For the last time he saw all these.
He checked the sigh; spread on the board
Of meat and wine his slender hoard,
And roused his sleeping guests, who lay
Still on the mat at break of day.
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