Within that little garden that I knew,
O! prim the beds were, straight and white the ways,
All simply made and plain for childhood days,
There little Love, white-winged, unspotted, flew.
Think you aught great there is for you I’ve done?
My Dream-Tree I have plundered of its toys
That grew within the garden of my joys!
In little paths where once sweet Love did run,
Roam wildly now the gaunt Wolves of Desire—
And blurred the ways, with dead flowers flecked—and mire.