IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



Not a thorn's-breadth more of red, 

 For the winters and the summers which have 

 passed me overhead. 



And that music overfloweth, 

 Sudden sweet, the sylvan eaves: 

 Thrush or nightingale who knoweth? 

 Fay or faunus who believes? 

 But my heart still trembles in me to the trem- 

 bling of the leaves. 



Is the bower lost then? who sayeth 

 That the bower indeed is lost? 

 Hark! my spirit in it prayeth 

 Through the sunshine and the frost, 

 And the prayer preserves it greenly, to the last 

 and uttermost. 



E. B. BROWNING. 



The Lost Bower. 



[220] 



