The Garden

There’s an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams

Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams

Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey

And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday

There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there’s moss about the pool

And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool

In the silent sunken pathways springs an herbage sparse and spare

Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air

There is not a living creature in the lonely space around

And the hedge-encompass’d quiet never echoes to a sound

As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find