What must I do this mystical morn When all the stars are put to sleep? Nothing am I but a gardener Who tills life's soil wide and deep.
What must I plant in this new moon-phase When all the stars begin to weep At the loss of night and breaking day When the sudden sun takes his great leap?
What must I harvest in the waning year When all the fruits with ripened glow Await the hand that tended them Who worked the earth with rake and hoe?
I must tend the garden of my unseen soul This living clay the seed prepare For a garden of divine design And greet the Mother seated there.
Poems Undated (1727)
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