Vi

Alas the time of crimson phlox is past And of proud roses brightening the gate. What matter? Still I love with all my heart Our garden, tho' deflow'red and desolate.

More dear than are the joyous summer noons, My garden is that now forlornly grieves; Oh the last perfumes languidly exhaled By a late flower in the lingering leaves!

This evening I wandered in the paths Over the plants my fervent touch to pass, And falling on my knees I pressed my lips To the wet earth among the trembling grass.

And now that it is dying and the night Has misted all the garden with its breath, My being that so dwells in all this ruin Shall learn to die in sharing thus its death.