 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
17
An Old Garden
The autumn sun is warm, the soft winds moan,
The golden fruits make sweet September air
In gardens where the apple blossoms were
Through these old Aprils that we twain have known.
I pass along the pathways overgrown;
Of all the flowers a single poppy there
Droops her tired head, a faded flower and fair,
One poppy that the wandering breeze hath sown.
The golden fruits make sweet September air
In gardens where the apple blossoms were
Through these old Aprils that we twain have known.
I pass along the pathways overgrown;
Of all the flowers a single poppy there
Droops her tired head, a faded flower and fair,
One poppy that the wandering breeze hath sown.
Here be no roses, and thou lack'st the rose;
No lilies fragrant in the lily bed;
One poppy in the bare untended close,
Droops, and the sun is shrouded overhead;
The gray sea-mist upon the sea-wind blows
Chill; and methinks the summer-time is dead.
No lilies fragrant in the lily bed;
One poppy in the bare untended close,
Droops, and the sun is shrouded overhead;
The gray sea-mist upon the sea-wind blows
Chill; and methinks the summer-time is dead.
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |