IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



These, and with these, and the breath of my 



chant, 

 I perfume the grave of him I love. 



Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird! 



Sing from the swamps, the recesses pour your 



chant from the bushes; 

 Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and 



pines. 



Sing on, dearest brother, warble your reedy song; 

 Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe. 



O liquid, and free, and tender! 



O wild and loose to my soul ! O wondrous singer ! 



You only I hear . . . yet the Star holds me 



(but will soon depart;) 

 Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me. 



And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me; 

 The gray-brown bird I know, receiv'd us com- 



rades three; 

 And he sang what seem'd the carol of death, and 



a verse for him I love. 



t'94] 



