The Garden Of Death

There is an isle in an unfurrowed sea

That I wot of, whereon the whole year round

The apple-blossoms and the rosebuds be

In early blooming ; and a many sound

Of ten-stringed lute, and most mellifluous breath

Of silver flute, and mellow half-heard horn,

Making unmeasured music. Thither Death

Coming like Love, takes all things in the morn

Of tenderest life, and being a delicate god,

In his own garden takes each delicate thing

Unstained, unmellowed, immature, untrod,

Tremulous betwixt the summer and the spring :

The rosebud ere it come to be a rose,

The blossom ere it win to be a fruit,

The virginal snowdrop, and the dove that knows

Only one dove for lover ; all the loot

Of young soft things, and all the harvesting

Of unripe flowers. Never comes the moon

To matron fulness, here no child-bearing

Vexes desire, and the sun knows no noon.

But all the happy dwellers of that place

Are reckless children gotten on Delight

By Beauty that is thrall to Death ; no grace,

No natural sweet they lack, a chrysolite

Of perfect beauty each. No wisdom comes

To mar their early folly, no false laws

Man-made for man, no mouthing prudence numbs

Their green unthought, or gives their licence pause ;

Young animals, young flowers, they live and grow,

And die before their sweet emblossomed breath

Has learnt to sigh save like a lover's. Oh !

How sweet is Youth, how delicate is Death !