Because we have known a delicate dream
We are excused in part. We have not wept
For the boldface type, and still do not believe
Its black obituary. Things we learn
From dreams are real to us, our dream has said
That it is neither pale nor ghost nor dead:
There are some things we cannot yet accept…
Hollyhock, lilac, and of course the rose
Still in our gardens: we are sure of those.
After a little reading we can state
That the mountains heaved, and the world began,
And somewhere, slowly, a risen man
Crept from his cave to meet his birth
Crying, “I live, and am divine,
This is my hand, the law is mine!”
But the others were proud, they would not wait
To be born alone and inherit the earth.
Having lived a few years, we can claim more,
Such as the memories of faces,
And maybe even love, and we can hate
The proper people in their proper places.
This we have learned: the words of songs,
The use of fingerbowls, train-schedules, and teas,
We’ve all had whooping-cough, and skinned our knees,
And built our sandy castles by the shore.
The seasons follow logically, the snow
Melts and the birds come back: this much we know.
Because we still believe the dream
Forgive us partially, we have the news
On paper only, we who use our hands
So gently, who weep so well
Read what the others say, and they have said
Only that what we call our dream is dead…
We can’t believe it, this you must excuse.
This poem appeared in the Fall 1947 edition of the student journal Dimensions. Alison Kimball Bradford was the Delaware State Poet Laureate in 1961; “Still in our Gardens” was included in “Poetry Awards 1949” from the University of Pennsylvania Press.