She gazes out upon the dying garden.

There rank death clutches at the flowers

And drags them down and stamps in earth.

At morn the thin, malignant hours,

Shrill-mouthed among the windy bowers,

Clamor a bitter mirth.—

Or is it heart-break that, forlorn,

Would so conceal itself in scorn?

At noon the weak, white sunlight crawls,

Like feeble feet once beautiful,

From mildewed walks to mildewed walls,

Down which the oozing moisture falls

Upon the cold toadstool.—

Faint on the leaves it drips and creeps —

Or is it tears of one who weeps?

At night a misty blur of moon

Slips through the trees,— pale as a face

Of melancholy marble hewn;—

And, like the phantom of some tune,

Winds whisper in the place.—

Or is it love come back again,

Seeking its perished joy in vain?