Into this garden

In stagnant gloom I toil thro’ day, All that delights me put away. Not even a bird, to one oppressed, Warbles in an o’erlabored breast, Nor from the fountains of delight Falls one clear drop to ease my sight. Yet, Thou who mad’st of dust my face, And shut me in this bitter place, Thou also, past the world to know, Did hinges hang where heart may go After day’s travail—vain all words— Into this garden of the Lord’s. —Walter de La Mare, “Poetry”

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