TO LADY NORTHCLIFFE 
B IRDS in your garden once again— 
(The old-time garden that you love)— 
Wake to the touch of silver rain, 
Sing while the gold sun mounts above. 
So runs it still, the ancient tale, 
Through immemorial years foretold— 
The dreaming bride behind the veil. 
The conquering Prince with spurs of gold. 
And those that say and those that sing 
(As thousands dead have said and sung), 
Do but enregister the spring, 
But praise that world where all is young. 
O, many a dream it fades and dies, 
And many a hope it lives in vain, 
But never dream of April skies. 
And never hope of soft spring rain. 
Then for your ancient pleasaunce’ sake, 
With all its fair sequestered ways, 
Dear Lady of the Garden, take 
This book of garden dreams and days. 
