- THE GARDEN
WHERE the wet fields stretch away, away,
And travellers never come,
There is the land where my thoughts stray
And the house I call my home.
No house had ever so deep a moat,
Or such tall reeds round It, and no man ever
Heard such lamentable trees
Whispering In the fatal breeze!
Will the keel of that strange boat
Lying under the lilies there,
Lying in weeds like drowned girl's hair,
Ever rise again and float?
Never did the wandering wind
Press its sad invisible face
'Gainst such window-casements blind!
Never did the night-hawk chase
Thro' a sultrier, heavier night
Moths so ghostly in their flight!
Never did the wild swans fly
Over such roofs of mystery!
But do you think it is only of these
Desperate, far-off, piteous, strange,
That I dream, when you see my memory range?
Do you think it is only of these?
No! No! dear heart. If you had seen
That inner garden with crumbling wall,
That garden where a dying queen
Might listen all night to a ghost's foot-fall,
If you had seen that old parterre
Of roses red with forbidden passion
You would know too well why I wander there,
Too well why my dreams are out of fashion!
Oh, their classic skies are blue and white.
But grey upon grey is best;
And to follow the rain is my delight
And the wild swans in their long, long flight
Into the night — into the night —
To that garden of the West.