IN DARK GARDENS
45
The grandad with his ninety years,
Palsied these ten, sat watching her.
The sun went down behind the hills,
He heard the gleaming insects whirr,
He saw bright eve her eyelids close
And sobbed . . . . and muttered of a rose.
Palsied these ten, sat watching her.
The sun went down behind the hills,
He heard the gleaming insects whirr,
He saw bright eve her eyelids close
And sobbed . . . . and muttered of a rose.
Perhaps, beyond the bluest peak,
In some dark vale, she found her flower,
Perhaps her hungry heart was filled—
We never saw her from that hour. . . .
So long ago—old memories fail!
Almost a legend seems the tale!
In some dark vale, she found her flower,
Perhaps her hungry heart was filled—
We never saw her from that hour. . . .
So long ago—old memories fail!
Almost a legend seems the tale!
······
The children brought white daisies in,
With frills about a yellow face,
They brought her broom from stony hills,
And violets from a marshy place. . . .
But only weeds are these to those
Who, in dark gardens, found a rose.
With frills about a yellow face,
They brought her broom from stony hills,
And violets from a marshy place. . . .
But only weeds are these to those
Who, in dark gardens, found a rose.
