IN DARK GARDENS
The children brought field daisies in,
White frills about a yellow face,
They brought her broom from stony hills,
And violets of a marshy place,
But still, before her spinning-wheel,
Listless she sat, with unwound reel. . . .
White frills about a yellow face,
They brought her broom from stony hills,
And violets of a marshy place,
But still, before her spinning-wheel,
Listless she sat, with unwound reel. . . .
She would not heed the chapel bell,
She moved as in a waking dream,
But sometimes by the sapphire lake,
Where thro' the reeds, the iris gleam,
She leaned, as tho' in that hushed hour
She sought for some forgotten flower.
She moved as in a waking dream,
But sometimes by the sapphire lake,
Where thro' the reeds, the iris gleam,
She leaned, as tho' in that hushed hour
She sought for some forgotten flower.
At times, with summer on the weld,
And drumming bees in jasmines blown,
She took her basket on her arm
And went into the woods alone,
Weeping, came back by lane and hill,
Her willow basket empty still. . . .
And drumming bees in jasmines blown,
She took her basket on her arm
And went into the woods alone,
Weeping, came back by lane and hill,
Her willow basket empty still. . . .
To none she spoke her secret grief
Always her sad eyes seemed to seek,
The grandad muttered from his chair
With words of strange import to speak,
He said, "'Tis thus the maiden goes,
Who in dark gardens found a rose. . . ."
Always her sad eyes seemed to seek,
The grandad muttered from his chair
With words of strange import to speak,
He said, "'Tis thus the maiden goes,
Who in dark gardens found a rose. . . ."
