this is the garden: colours come and go

    frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing

    strong silent greens serenely lingering

    absolute lights like baths of golden snow.

    This is the garden： pursed lips do blow

    upon cool flutes within wide glooms and sing

    （of harps celestial to the quivering string）

    invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

    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.