THE OLD GARDEN 231 



The swaying flowers lift their sweet, wet eyes, 

 And burst of perfume fills the shining air, 

 The drenched and dreary street feels vague surprise 

 At the strange fragrance overflowing there. 



Inside the walls, the tall ailanthus' shade 



Is tangled in the meshes of the grass, 



Or flecks the path, whose mossy flags were laid 



For childish feet, long since grown old, to pass ; 



Between the stones, the scarlet pimpernel 



Finds room to spread its thread-like roots and 



grow; 



And all self-sown the portulaca's bell 

 Lights up the ground with tender, rosy glow. 

 The walls are hedged with dusky green of box, 

 That once enclosed long borders, trim and neat ; 

 Within them stood great clumps of snowy phlox, 

 That shone at dusk, and grew more deeply sweet. 

 But now the phlox wild morning-glories seek, 

 Whose silky blossoms rove the garden through, 

 And press pure faces 'gainst the thistle's cheek, 

 Or star-like gleam amid the grass and dew 

 A thousand pushing weeds the borders hold, 

 And standing with them, wild and rank as they, 

 Are tender blossoms, now grown over-bold, 

 And careless of the garden's slow decay. 

 Oh, far away, in some serener air, 

 The eyes that loved them see a heavenly dawn : 

 How can they bloom without her tender care ? 

 Why should they live, when her sweet life is 



gone ? 



