The Rescue of an Old Place 



The garden So have I heard the cuckoo's parting cry, 



in the rain. From the wet field through the vext garden 



trees 

 Come, with the volleying rain and tossing 



breeze ; 

 The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I ! 



Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go ? 

 Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on, 



Soon will the musk carnations break and swell, 

 Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon, 



Sweet-william with his homely cottage smell, 



And stocks in fragrant blow ; 

 Roses that down the alleys shine afar, 



And open, jasmine-muffled lattices, 



And groups under the dreaming garden trees, 

 And the full moon, and the white evening star. 

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