this is the garden: colours come and go

　　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.