There is a garden made for our delight, <br />Where all the dreams we dare not dream come true. <br />I know it, but I do not know the way. <br />We slip and tumble in the doubtful night, <br />Where everything is difficult and new, <br />And clouds our breath has made obscure the day. <br /> <br />The blank unhappy towns, where sick men strive, <br />Still doing work that yet is never done; <br />The hymns to Gold that drown their desperate voice; <br />The weeds that grow where once corn stood alive, <br />The black injustice that puts out the sun: <br />These are our portion, since they are our choice. <br /> <br />Yet there the garden blows with rose on rose, <br />The sunny, shadow-dappled lawns are there; <br />There the immortal lilies, heavenly sweet. <br />O roses, that for us shall not unclose! <br />O lilies, that we shall not pluck or wear! <br />O dewy lawns untrodden by our feet!<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-garden-refused/
