Donal Grant

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I.

I
stood in an ancient garden
With high red walls around;

Over them gray and green lichens

In shadowy arabesque wound.

The topmost climbing blossoms

On fields kine-haunted looked out;

But within were shelter and shadow,

And daintiest odours about.

There were alleys and lurking arbours--

Deep glooms into which to dive;

The lawns were as soft as fleeces--

Of daisies I counted but five.

The sun-dial was so aged

It had gathered a thoughtful grace;

And the round-about of the shadow

Seemed to have furrowed its face.

The flowers were all of the oldest

That ever in garden sprung;

Red, and blood-red, and dark purple,

The rose-lamps flaming hung.

Along the borders fringéd

With broad thick edges of box,

Stood fox-gloves and gorgeous poppies,

And great-eyed hollyhocks.

There were junipers trimmed into castles,

And ash-trees bowed into tents;

For the garden, though ancient and pensive,

Still wore quaint ornaments.

It was all so stately fantastic,

Its old wind hardly would stir:

Young Spring, when she merrily entered,

Must feel it no place for her!


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