| The Garden of Shadow |
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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.
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O bright, bright hair! O mouth 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.
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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-time nor in harvesting.
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