THE OLD GARDEN.

I stood in an ancient garden

With high red walls around;

Over them grey and green lichens

In shadowy arabesque wound.

The topmost climbing blossoms

On fields kine-haunted looked out;

But within were shelter and shadow,

With daintiest odours about.

There were alleys and lurking arbours,

Deep glooms into which to dive.

The lawns were as soft as fleeces,

Of daisies I counted but five.

The sun-dial was so aged

It had gathered a thoughtful grace;

‘ Twas the round-about of the shadow

That so had furrowed its face.

The flowers were all of the oldest

That ever in garden sprung;

Red, and blood-red, and dark purple

The rose-lamps flaming hung.

Along the borders fringed

With broad thick edges of box

Stood foxgloves and gorgeous poppies

And great-eyed hollyhocks.

There were junipers trimmed into castles,

And ash-trees bowed into tents;

For the garden, though ancient and pensive,

Still wore quaint ornaments.

It was all so stately fantastic

Its old wind hardly would stir;

Young Spring, when she merrily entered,

Scarce felt it a place for her.