The Sunken Garden

Speak not — whisper not;

Here bloweth thyme and bergamot;

Softly on the evening hour,

Secret herbs their spices shower,

Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh,

Lean-stalked, purple lavender;

Hides within her bosom, too,

All her sorrows, bitter rue.

Breathe not — trespass not;

Of this green and darkling spot,

Latticed from the moon's beams,

Perchance a distant dreamer dreams;

Perchance upon its darkening air,

The unseen ghosts of children fare,

Faintly swinging, sway and sweep,

Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep;

While, unmoved, to watch and ward,

'Mid its gloomed and daisied sward,

Stands with bowed and dewy head

That one little leaden Lad.