Within the heart, a garden lies,
Unseen by any, yet it grows,
Beneath the vast and changing skies,
Through summer’s warmth and winter’s snows.
No hand but mine may shape its ground,
No voice but mine its hush may break;
The winds may call, the storms resound,
Yet still it blooms for my own sake.
No fleeting star, no wayward breeze,
No whispered love from lips unknown,
Can root the vine or raise the trees—
This earth is tilled by me alone.
For sorrow walks the garden path,
And doubt may shadow leaf and stem,
Yet joy returns to light its wrath,
And love stands tall at dusk’s last hem.
The rose of hope, the violet true,
The daisy bright with laughing hue,
They open not for fortune’s grace,
But for the touch of time’s embrace.
Then let me tend this sacred ground,
With patient hand and quiet care,
For in its walls my peace is found,
And happiness shall blossom there.