Garden of Divine Design

What must I do this mystical morn

When all the stars are put to sleep?

Nothing am I but a gardener

Who tills life's soil wide and deep.

What must I plant in this new moon-phase

When all the stars begin to weep

At the loss of night and breaking day

When the sudden sun takes his great leap?

What must I harvest in the waning year

When all the fruits with ripened glow

Await the hand that tended them

Who worked the earth with rake and hoe?

I must tend the garden of my unseen soul

This living clay the seed prepare

For a garden of divine design

And greet the Mother seated there.