An Island Garden – By Celia Thaxxter
To Mrs. Mary Hemenway, “Whose largeness of heart is even as the sand on the seashore.”
Here is a problem a wonder for all to see. Look at this marvelous thing I hold in my hand! This is a magic surprising, a mystery; Strange as a miracle, harder to understand.
What is it? Only a handful of earth; to your touch; a dry rough powder you trample beneath your feet, Dark and lifeless; but think for a moment, how much it hides and holds that is beautiful, bitter, or sweet.
Think of the glory of color! The red of the rose, green of the myriad leaves and the fields of grass, yellow as bright as the sun where the daffodil blows, purple where violets not as the breezes pass.
Think of the manifold form, of the oak and the vine, nut, and fruit, and cluster, and ears of corn; Of the anchored warter-lily, a thing divine, unfolding its dazzling snow to the kiss of morn.
Think of the delicate perfumes borne on the gale, of the golden willow catkin’s odor of spring, of the breath of the rich narcissus waxen-pale, of the sweet pea’s flight of flowers, of the nettle’s sting.
Strange that this lifeless thing gives vine, flower, tree, color and shape and character, fragrance too; that the timber that builds the house, the ship for the sea, out of this powder is strength and its toughness drew!
That the cocoa among the palms should suck its milk from this dry dust, which dates from the self-same soil. Summon their sweet rich fruit; that our shining silk, the mulberry leaves should yield to the worm’s slow toil.
How should the poppy steal sleep from the very source that grants to the grapevine juice that can madden or cheer?
How does the wee find food for its fabric coarse where the lilies proud their blossoms pure uprear?
Who shall compass or fathom God’s thought profound? We can but praise, for we may not understand; but there’s no more beautiful riddle the whole world round than is hid in this heap of dust I hold in my hand.
