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.