Vestured and veiled with twilight,
Lulled in the winter's ease,
Dim, and happy, and silent,
My garden dreams by its trees.
Urn of the sprayless fountain,
Glimmering nymph and faun,
Gleam through the dark-plumed cedar,
Fade on the dusky lawn.
Here is no stir of summer,
Here is no pulse of spring;
Never a bud to burgeon,
Never a bird to sing.
Dreams—and the kingdom of quiet!
Only the dead leaves lie
Over the fallen roses
Under the shrouded sky.
Folded and fenced with silence
Mindless of moil and mart,
It is twilight here in my garden,
And twilight here in my heart.
Rosamund Marriott Watson
THE FRUIT GARDEN PATH
The path runs straight between the flowering rows,
A moonlit path hemmed in by beds of bloom,
Where phlox and marigolds dispute for room
With tall, red dahlias and the briar rose.
'Tis reckless prodigality which throws
Into the night these wafts of rich perfume
Which sweep across the garden like a plume.
Over the trees a single bright star glows.
Dear garden of my childhood, here my years
Have run away like little grains of sand;
The moments of my life, its hopes and fears
Have all found utterance here, where now I stand;
My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears,
You are my home, do you not understand?
Amy Lowell