OAK HILL.
There are roses of passionate perfume In the gardens under the hill,Red-lipped and rich with the honey, That the brown bee sips at will.
Lightly their breath is blowing Wherever the west wind flies,A part of the breathing rapture Of laughter and kisses and sighs.
But here, where the silence is perfect As in undiscovered lands,The lilies are crowding like sainted souls, With their gold harps in their hands.
And I think if the Lord, at cool of day, Should again with his servants tread,It is here that his feet would linger,— In this Garden of the Dead!
