this is the garden: colours come and go

frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing

strong silent ens serenely lingering

absolute lights like baths of golden snow.

This is the garden: pursed lips do blow

upon cool flutes within wide glooms and sing

(of harps celestial to the quivering string)

invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden. Time shall surely reap

and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled

in other lands where other songs be sung;

yet stand They here enraptured as among

The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep

some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.