I own a solace¹ shut within my heart,
A garden full of many a quaint² delight
And warm with drowsy³, poppied sunshine; bright,
Flaming with lilies out of whose cups dart
Shining things
With powdered wings.
Here terrace sinks to terrace, arbors close
The ends of dreaming paths; a wanton wind
Jostles the half-ripe pears, and then, unkind,
Tumbles a-slumber in a pillar rose,
With content
Grown indolent.
By night my garden is o'erhung with gems
Fixed in an onyx setting.  Fireflies
Flicker their lanterns in my dazzled eyes.
In serried⁴ rows I guess the straight, stiff stems
Of hollyhocks
Against the rocks.
So far and still it is that, listening,
I hear the flowers talking in the dawn;
And where a sunken basin cuts the lawn,
Cinctured with iris⁵, pale and glistening,
The sudden swish
Of a waking fish.

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