IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



O high the emprizes and high the renown, 

 And the King hath his maidens, the King hath 



his crown ! 

 But what of the whispers which hint in his 



sleep ? 

 Do hearts never sorrow? Do eyes never weep? 



The garden has sycamores stately and old; 



O the time is rich autumn, the leaves are all 



gold, 

 Round maids in the moonlight, high-seeming and 



soft, 



But a mist looking mournful envelops them oft; 

 With a voice full of loss falls the wave on the 



strand ; 

 Lone horsemen ride hurriedly far through the 



land; 

 Cold sleet against windows beats heavy and 



drives 

 On the overblown blooms and the bees' ravish'd 



hives. 



All voice in that garden dies down in a dirge, 

 And the King hath his sorrow to crown him 



and scourge. 

 Far, far through the windows his vision is 



strain'd, 



[204] 



