The Gardener of Sinope
Where, past the garden, stood a cot
Of wattles, with a fountain nigh;
And, entering in, the weary men
Sank down in anguish, like to die.
But Phocas spread fresh rushes then
And let them on the rushes lie,
And gave them bread and fruit to eat
With wine for drinking, clear and sweet.
And when at last they sank to sleep.
Buried in slumber sound and deep.
The gardener rose and left the house
And stood beneath his apple-trees,
And watched the planets in the boughs
Like heavenly fruit, and felt the breeze
Breathe on him; somewhere out of sight
The thyme smelt, where his slow feet trod
Along the grass; all round the night
Compassed him like the love of God.
Then Phocas slept not, but he dreamed.
All round him was a stir of wings
And raiment and soft feet it seemed;
A shine and music of heavenly things;
A light of faces, a shimmer of hair.
And heavenly maidens round him there.
Dorothy, crowned with roses, stooped
To pluck a rose from his red- rose tree;
White-rose Cecily, where there drooped
A snowy rosebud, tenderly
Laid it inside her music book.
Then Agnes took an olive bough
And bound it crown-wise round her brow.
While Margaret all the rest forsook
For daisies in the grass to look.
Our Lady Mary herself came down
To gather lilies for a crown
And sent her angel-messenger
Where Phocas, all bewildered, was.
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