this is the garden: colours come and go

    frail¹ azures fluttering from night's outer wing

    strong silent greens serenely² lingering

    absolute lights like baths of golden snow.

    This is the garden： pursed lips do blow

    upon cool flutes³ within wide glooms and sing

    （of harps⁴ celestial⁵ to the quivering string）

    invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

    This is the garden. Time shall surely reap

    and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled

    in other lands where other songs be sung；

    yet stand They here enraptured⁶ as among

    The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep

    some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.