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THE NOVEMBER GARDEN.
41
And its glory
Gilds the story,
Tints the picture, wreathes the hair."
"O wailing, worn, forsaken garden,"
Artemisia softly said,
"Know you not there's glory waiting
When these autumn days have sped—
A sequel glory
To Life s story,
A crown of crystal for the head?"
O'er the waiting, silent garden
Came, one starry, frosty night,
Strange new robes of shining splendor,
Crystalline and strangely bright.
So morning found
The garden crowned,
And robed in mystic robe of white.
Each leaf, and bough, and carved capsule,
Seeded plume, grass-blade, and stone,
With curious screen of spiders' weaving,
In a resplendent rainbow shone.
So, ere the morn
To earth was born,
The King redeemed her for his own.
4*
