Was there a garden or was it a dream?
Myself I asked, in fading light so slow.
And if the past, it comforts me to know,
Now Adam's own and sad, were but sleep's reams,
No realer than a magical, mad hoax
Of God? All has been rendered imprecise
In memory, that clearest Paradise,
Exist it must, and will endure in hopes.
But not for me. The stubborn dirt we shift
Has exiled me, red internecine spray
Of Cains and Abels and descendants' dread.
But to have loved remains our greatest gift.
To have been happy and to have touched
The living Garden, if but for one day.