The Gardener of Sinope
Where loud the Pontine billows roar
And lash the Paphlagonian shore;
Where first the yellow stretch of sands
Breaks into green and waving sheen
Of growing corn and meadow lands;
There, nestling grass and sea between,
The little town Sinope stands.
A mile beyond the western gate.
One garden broke the desolate
Waste reach of wind-swept, briny shore-
A garden always green and fair
With companies of roses there,
And lilies maiden-white and tall.
And in that place there dwelt of yore
Phocas, an aged gardener.
He had his house within the wall,
And rarely left the garden space,
Saving to do some deed of grace;
Little he spoke, and, if at all.
Mere words of greeting and farewell;
Yet any looking on his face
Would need no second glance to tell
How great a soul lay secret there.
And in his voice there rang a spell
Of consolation and of prayer;
And all who knew him loved him well.
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