![Anne Spencer – For Jim, Easter Eve](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaN8HfZ-Q4H1pPA3v6iteYVt1t9jawZ4Z0miyd-PBwFlaFcnbvSrgyLcKw9VzmqpiWWXLppD7E1WeiyZDs2K-SejTJdMIkZf_XSI-bYjA4MgJAlKTMrIs4oC1tfi0clfn3wVac7EIiZfQ/w291-h320-rw/anne-spencer.jpg)
If ever a garden was Gethsemane,
with old tombs set high against
the crumpled olive tree--and lichen,
this, my garden, has been to me.
For such as I none other is so sweet:
Lacking old tombs, here stands my grief,
and certainly its ancient tree.
Peace is here and in every season
a quiet beauty.
The sky falling about me
evenly to the compass . . .
What is sorrow but tenderness now
in this earth-close frame of land and sky
falling constantly into horizons
of east and west, north and south;
what is pain but happiness here
amid these green and wordless patterns,--
indefinite texture of blade and leaf:
Beauty of an old, old tree,
last comfort in Gethsemane.