Wistful in These Latter Years

There are gardens that remain unseen,

One life is not enough to span the tide

Of bed and leaf and bloom and all the green

Wonder of this sacred mountainside.

There are flowers that I have not spoken to

That bloom unknown to the unperceptive eye

And fragrances distilled by morning dew

As the seasons of my soul go fleeting by,

Music of the earth I have not heard

The songs of distant seas that charm the ear

That seeks from God a touch or living word

And prays the silent mind His voice to hear.