This is the garden. Time shall surely reap,
And on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,
In other lands where other songs be sung;
Yet stand They here enraptured, as among
The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
Some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
It may not always be so; and I say
That if your lips, which I have loved, should touch
Another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch