Into the garden of sorrow, Some day we all must roam, If not to-day, then to-morrow, Bow 'neath its purple dome, Out from the musk-laden banqueting halls, Doffing our mirth-spangled vestments like thralls, Softly we wend to Gethsemane, In the hour that sorrow calls! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PORTRAIT OF ONE DEAD by CONRAD AIKEN THE LAMP OF LIFE by AMY LOWELL DOMESDAY BOOK: IRMA LEESE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: PENNIWIT, THE ARTIST by EDGAR LEE MASTERS A HYMN OF HATE by DOROTHY PARKER |