IT IS LATER THAN YOU THINK 



A garden bower'd close 



With plaited allays of the trailing rose, 



Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, 



Or opening upon level plots 



Of crowned lilies, standing near 



Purple-spiked lavendar : 



Whither in after life retired 



From brawling storms, 



From weary wind; 



With youthful fancy reinspired, 



We may hold converse, with all forms 



Of the many-sided mind. . . . 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



In Green Old Gardens 



In green old gardens, hidden away 



From sight of revel and sound of strife, 

 Where the bird may sing out his soul ere 



he die, 

 Nor fears for the night, so he lives his day; 



