There is an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams, where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams, where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey, and the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday. There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there is moss about the pool, and the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool. In the silent sunken pathways springs an herbage sparse and spare, where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air. There is not a living creature in the lonely space around, and the hedge-encompassed quiet never echoes to a sound. As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find when it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind. I will often conjure a vision of a day that is no more, as I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before. Then a sadness settles over me, and a tremor seems to start for I know the flowers are shrivelled hopes and the garden is my heart.
There is an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams, where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams, where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey, and the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday. There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there is moss about the pool, and the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool. In the silent sunken pathways springs an herbage sparse and spare, where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air. There is not a living creature in the lonely space around, and the hedge-encompassed quiet never echoes to a sound. As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find when it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind. I will often conjure a vision of a day that is no more, as I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before. Then a sadness settles over me, and a tremor seems to start for I know the flowers are shrivelled hopes and the garden is my heart.