The Child in the Garden

Henry van Dyke (1852–1933)

From The Atlantic Magazine

WHEN to the garden of untroubled thought

I came of late, and saw the open door,

And wished again to enter, and explore

The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought,

And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught,

It seemed some purer voice must speak before

I dared to tread that garden loved of yore,

That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.

Then just within the gate I saw a child,—

A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear,—

Who held his hands to me, and softly smiled

With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear:

“Come in,” he said, “and play awhile with me;

I am the little child you used to be.”