Saturday, March 26, 2016
Poem: “Easter Eve” By Anne Bethel Spencer
If ever a garden was Gethsemane,
With old tombs set high against
The crumpled olive tree and lichen,
This, my garden has been to me.
For such as I none other is so sweet:
Lacking old tombs, here stands my grief,
And certainly its ancient tree.
Peace is here and in every season
A quiet beauty.
The sky is falling about me
Evenly to the compass …
What is sorrow but tenderness now
In this earth-close frame of land and sky
Falling constantly into horizons
Of east and west, north and south;
What is pain but happiness here
Amid these green and wordless patterns,
Indefinite texture of blade and leaf:
Beauty of an old, old tree,
Last comfort in Gethsemane.