Ii

She looks down upon the dying garden:

There rank death clutches at the flowers And drags them down and stamps in earth. At morn the thin, malignant hours, Shrill-voiced, among the wind-torn bowers, Clamor a bitter mirth-- Or is it heartbreak that, forlorn, Would so conceal itself in scorn.

At noon the weak, white sunlight crawls, Like feeble age, once beautiful, From mildewed walks to mildewed walls, Down which the oozing moisture falls Upon the cold toadstool:-- Faint on the leaves it drips and creeps-- Or is it tears of love who weeps?

At night a misty blur of moon Slips through the trees,--pale as a face Of melancholy marble hewn;-- And, like the phantom of some tune, Winds whisper in the place-- Or is it love come back again, Seeking its perished joy in vain?