Chapter XI

“Flowers in my garden! Flowers!” Love’s willing thrall,
Responsive ever to her tyrant’s will,
Sped through the house, nor heeded other call,
To where, without, he stood and claimed her still.

“My garden” in the town required the grace
He had to call it such—a dust-grimed square—
But his content emparadised the place,
And made it bud and blossom everywhere.

“Where are your flowers?” I mocked, for all around,
Under the dismal walls, smoke-tainted green,
Dim laurel, sad spent crocus on the ground,
Sad ivy-tendrils, could alone be seen.

But while I mocked, laughing and kissing too—
Lo! three small stems of scylla frail and blue.