Poem: Le Jardin

The lily's withered chalice falls

Around its rod of dusty gold,

And from the beech-trees on the wold

The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.

The gaudy leonine sunflower

Hangs black and barren on its stalk,

And down the windy garden walk

The dead leaves scatter, - hour by hour.

Pale privet-petals white as milk

Are blown into a snowy mass:

The roses lie upon the grass

Like little shreds of crimson silk.