IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



His revelling fingers disentwine 

 Leaf, flower, and all, 

 And let them fall 



Blossom and all in thy wavering wine. 

 The Summer looks out from her brazen tower, 



Through the flashing bars of July, 

 Waiting thy ripened golden shower; 



Whereof there cometh, with sandals fleet, 



The North-west flying viewlessly, 

 With a sword to sheer, and untameable feet, 

 And the Gorgon-head of the Winter shown 

 To stiffen the gazing earth as stone. 

 * # * * * 



Still, mighty Season, do I see't, 

 Thy sway is still majestical 

 Thou hold'st of God by title sure, 

 Thine indefeasible investiture, 



And that right round thy locks are native to; 

 The heavens upon thy brow imperial, 



This huge terrene thy ball, 

 And o'er thy shoulders thrown wide air's de- 



pending pall 

 What if thine earth be blear and bleak of hue? 



Still, still the skies are sweet! 

 Still, Season, still thou hast thy triumphs 

 there ! 



[60] 



