Poems

by Edward Dowden

III

Come to the garden’s end,—not so,
Not by the grass, it would drench your feet;
See, here is a path where the trees o’ergrow
And the fireflies flicker; but, my sweet,
Lean on me now, for one cannot see
Here where the great leaves lie unfurled
To take the whole soul and the mystery
Of a summer night poured out for the world.