And traffic roars, and toilers faint with heat,
Where men forget that ever woods were green,
The wonders of my garden are not seen.
Only at night the magic doors disclose
Its labyrinths of lavender and rose;
And honeysuckle, white beneath its moon,
Whispers me softly thou art coming soon;
And led by Love’s white hand upon my wrist
Beside its glimmering fountains I keep tryst.
O Love, this moving fragrance on my hair,—