Provence

Shut from the clamor of the street

By an old wall with lichen grown,
It holds apart from jar and fret
A peace and beauty all its own.
 

The freshness of the springtime rains
And dews of morning linger here;
It holds the glow of summer noons
And ripest twilights of the year.
 

Above its bloom the evening stars
Look down at closing of the day,
And in its sweet and shady walks
Winds spent with roaming love to stray, 

Upgathering to themselves the breath
Of wide-blown roses white and red,
The spice of musk and lavender
Along its winding alleys shed.
 

Outside are shadeless, troubled streets
And souls that quest for gold and gain,
Lips that have long forgot to smile
And hearts that burn and ache with pain.
 

But here is all the sweet of dreams,
The grace of prayer, the boon of rest, 
The spirit of old songs and loves
Dwells in this garden blossom-blest.
 

Here would I linger for a space,
And walk herein with memory; 
The world will pass me as it may
And hope will minister to me.

(Lucy Maud Montgomery)