MYSELF

There is a garden, grey

With mists of autumntide;

Under the giant boughs,

Stretched green on every side,

Along the lonely paths,

A little child like me,

With face, with hands, like mine,

Plays ever silently;

On, on, quite silently,

When I am there alone,

Turns not his head; lifts not his eyes;

Heeds not as he plays on.

After the birds are flown

From singing in the trees,

When all is grey, all silent,

Voices, and winds, and bees;

And I am there alone:

Forlornly, silently,

Plays in the evening garden

Myself with me.