To a Garden
by Violet Fane
Oh, happy Eden! where I roam'd of yore
In that sweet ignorance I long for now,
Not childish innocence of fruited bough,
For I had bit my apple to the core:
But when the golden fruit seem'd doubly sweet
(Unlike the tempter of a bygone day),
A serpent came, and bade me fling away
What once he bade those first poor lovers eat.
Oh, had I never bent that magic bough
And tasted all the sweetness that it bore,
My heart had been as careless as before,
And all these bitter tears unfalling now!
Oh, curse the cruel hand that pointed where
My golden apple had its bitter flaw,
And curse the cruel eye that smiled and saw
My best illusions melting into air!
But garden—garden where I used to rove,
I bless thy orange groves and sunny sky,
I bless thy feath'ry palm-trees tow'ring high,
That overshadow'd what seem'd then my love!