THE GARDEN.

There shall be dark trees round me:— I insist

On cypresses: I'm terribly romantic —

And glimpsed between shall move the whole Atlantic,

Now leaden dull, now subtle with grey mist,

Now many jewelled, when the waves are kissed

By revelling sunlight and the corybantic

South-Western wind: so, troubled, passion-frantic,

The poet's mind boils gold and amethyst.

There shall be seen the infinite endeavour

Of a sad fountain, white against the sky

And poised as it strains up, but doomed to break

In weeping music; ever fair and ever

Young... and the bright-eyed wood-gods as they slake

Their thirst in it, are silent, reverently...