In a coign of the cliff between lowland and high- 

 land, 

 At the sea-down's edge between windward and 



lee, 

 Walled round with rocks as an inland island, 



The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. 

 A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses 



The steep square slope of the blossomless bed 

 Where the weeds that grew green from the graves 

 of its roses 

 Now lie dead. 



SWINBURNE. 



