In the garden she hath found

Herb of grace and fever-few;

Woundwort there doth much abound,

Heartsease too.

Where she laid dead things away

In the chilly earth, what stir!

Whisper of Spring-time, green and gay,

Comes to her.

All Sweet-Nancies, daffodils,

Talking in their beds below

Of sweet vales and shining hills

Whither they go.

In the garden there's no grief;

God walks there and He is kind,

When the first dear crumpled leaf

Shakes in the wind.

There's no death now. Winter's done.

All's given back. The dead again

Walk with her in the wind and sun

And the sweet rain.

Heartsease in her garden plot,

Ladders-to-Heaven scale the skies;

While the dear forget-me-not

Brightens her eyes.