XXI

I hear of two far hence

In a garden met,

And the fragrance blown from thence

Fades not yet.

The one is seven years old,

And my friend is he:

But the years of the other have told

Eighty-three.

To hear these twain converse

Or to see them greet

Were sweeter than softest verse

May be sweet.

The hoar old gardener there

With an eye more mild

Perchance than his mild white hair

Meets the child.

I had rather hear the words

That the twain exchange

Than the songs of all the birds

There that range,

Call, chirp, and twitter there

Through the garden-beds

Where the sun alike sees fair

Those two heads,

And which may holier be

Held in heaven of those

Or more worth heart's thanks to see

No man knows.