The fair world is the witness of a crime
Repeated every hour. For life and breath
Are sweet to all who live; and bitterly
The voices of these robbers of the heath
Sound in each ear and chill the passer-by.
—What have we done to thee, thou monstrous Time?
What have we done to Death that we must die?
HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON
b. 1840
824. A Garden Song
Here in this sequester'd close Bloom the hyacinth and rose, Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and degrees.
All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach and apricot and fig Here will ripen and grow big; Here is store and overplus,— More had not Alcinoüs!
Here, in alleys cool and green, Far ahead the thrush is seen; Here along the southern wall Keeps the bee his festival; All is quiet else—afar Sounds of toil and turmoil are.
