IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



And the musk-rich scents of the garden rise 

 To the overshadowing fringe 

 Of their gorgeous golden eyes. 



I know, 



When at last the uttermost stillness steeps 

 Rose and lily, and laurel and lilac hedge; 

 The leaf does not stir on the willow, nor the 



leaf where the ash-tree weeps, 

 The topmost twig of the yew and the cypress 



sleeps 



Like the box of the garden edge; 

 When great, divine, serene, 

 Flowing from vales beyond, and yet beyond 



from the hills, 



The sense magnetic of expectation fills 

 The palaces sacramental and high-roof'd halls 

 In the haunted place of incense, the wondrous 



place 



Earth and its crown between, 

 With an unvoiced solemn promise of bound- 



less grace, 

 As over the East's red ramparts, gateways and 



cloudy walls, 



And over a thousand changeful turrets and 

 towers, 



[210] 



