Chapter 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.