Too long the desires of the world have traveled through my garden lot,
and trampled down the flowers planted, broken limbs and every pot,
left worn the ways meant for grass, left bare the places saved for life
and made a joke of Godly peace, and made a home of trouble strife.
But no more—for I take anew to patch the breach of walls
to fill those holes left blank by every stone which falls
with the inclination of invading thoughts; my captains,
my captives—I know not which: to bring me joys, or bring me pains.
I till the ground and break it up, and feed it seed and water drink,
and tend these hopes against vain guests that make me think
more of this life—and her every glistening gem—than the one to come.
Still a stranger, I have a home.
I cannot keep all invaders from this plot—nor is it mine to try,
but is mine to care to hold the breach and fix it by and by
perchance in time, my foolish thoughts will be to weak
to tarry here much longer. With delight, my soul the stronger—
That is what I seek.