Picture all of us as a Garden,
which we are -
each of us blooming
in our own way and time
and color and size,
and then fading and being "dead-headed"
and put on the compost pile
to become rich lovely soil
to help others grow their best.
THIS IS THE GARDEN
this is the garden: colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing
strong silent greens serenely lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden: pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.
This is the garden. Time shall surely reap
and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured, as among
the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
— e.e. cummings
from Complete Poems: 1904-1962, W.W. Norton
Poetry Garden
