A DARK MONTH.
339
XXI.
In a garden met,
And the fragrance blown from thence
Fades not yet.
The one is seven years old,
And my friend is he:
But the years of the other have told
Eighty-three.
To hear these twain converse
Or to see them greet
Were sweeter than softest verse
May be sweet.
The hoar old gardener there
With an eye more mild
Perchance than his mild white hair
Meets the child.
I had rather hear the words
That the twain exchange
Than the songs of all the birds
There that range,
