IN PRAISE OF GARDENS U 



A Forsaken Garden 



In a coign of the cliff between lowland and 



highland, 

 At the sea-down's edge between windward 



and lee, 

 Walled round with rocks as an inward island, 



The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. 

 A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses 



The steep square slope of the blossomless bed 

 Where the weeds that grew green from the 



graves of its roses 

 Now lie dead. 



Not a flower to be prest at the foot that falls not ; 

 As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are 



dry; 



From the thicket of thorns whence the night- 

 ingale calls not, 

 Could she call, there were never a rose to 



reply. 



Over the meadows that blossom and wither, 

 Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song. 

 Only the sun and the rain come hither 

 All year long. 



[222] 



