tT IN PRAISE OF GARDENS U 



Of all the former flowers that kissed your feet 



Remains a poppy, pallid from the heat, 

 A wild poppy that the wild winds have sown. 

 Alas! the rose forgets your hands of rose; 



The lilies slumber in the lily bed; 

 'Tis only poppies in the dreamy close, 



The changeless, windless garden of the dead, 

 You tend, with buds soft as your kiss that lies 

 In ever happy dreams, upon mine eyes. 



ANDREW LANG. 

 Ballads and Lyrics of Old France. 



My Heart Shall be Thy Garden 



My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own, 

 Into thy garden; thine be happy hours 

 Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers, 



From root to crowning petal, thine alone. 



Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown 

 Up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers. 

 But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build 



bowers 



To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have 

 flown. 



[96] 



