THE GARDEN OF SHADOW

Love heeds no more the sighing of the wind

Against the perfect flowers: thy garden's close

Is grown a wilderness, where none shall find

One strayed, last petal of one last year's rose.

O bright, bright hair! O mount like a ripe fruit!

Can famine be so nigh to harvesting?

Love, that was songful, with a broken lute

In grass of graveyards goeth murmuring.

Let the wind blow against the perfect flowers,

And all thy garden change and glow with spring:

Love is grown blind with no more count of hours

Nor part in seed-tune nor in harvesting.