If ever we see those gardens again, <br />The summer will be gone—at least our summer. <br />Some other mockingbird will concertize <br />Among the mulberries, and other vines <br />Will climb the high brick wall to disappear. <br /> <br />How many footpaths crossed the old estate— <br />The gracious acreage of a grander age— <br />So many trees to kiss or argue under, <br />And greenery enough for any mood. <br />What pleasure to be sad in such surroundings. <br /> <br />At least in retrospect. For even sorrow <br />Seems bearable when studied at a distance, <br />And if we speak of private suffering, <br />The pain becomes part of a well-turned tale <br />Describing someone else who shares our name. <br /> <br />Still, thinking of you, I sometimes play a game. <br />What if we had walked a different path one day, <br />Would some small incident have nudged us elsewhere <br />The way a pebble tossed into a brook <br />Might change the course a hundred miles downstream? <br /> <br />The trick is making memory a blessing, <br />To learn by loss the cool subtraction of desire, <br />Of wanting nothing more than what has been, <br />To know the past forever lost, yet seeing <br />Behind the wall a garden still in blossom.<br /><br />Dana Gioia<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lost-garden-2/
