 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
362
A RUINED GARDEN.
All my roses are dead in my Garden—
What shall I do?
Winds in the night, without pity or pardon,
Came there and slew.
What shall I do?
Winds in the night, without pity or pardon,
Came there and slew.
All my song-birds are dead in their bushes—
Woe for such things!
Robins and linnets and blackbirds and thrushes,
Dead, with stiff wings.
Woe for such things!
Robins and linnets and blackbirds and thrushes,
Dead, with stiff wings.
Oh, my Garden! rifled and flowerless,
Waste now and drear;
Oh, my Garden! barren and bowerless,
Through all the year.
Waste now and drear;
Oh, my Garden! barren and bowerless,
Through all the year.
Oh, my dead birds! each in his nest there,
So cold and stark;
What was the horrible death that pressed there
When skies were dark?
So cold and stark;
What was the horrible death that pressed there
When skies were dark?
What shall I do for my roses' sweetness,
The summer round,—
For all my Garden's divine completeness
Of scent and sound?
The summer round,—
For all my Garden's divine completeness
Of scent and sound?
I will leave my Garden for winds to harry;
Where once was peace,
Let the bramble-vine and the wild brier marry,
And greatly increase.
Where once was peace,
Let the bramble-vine and the wild brier marry,
And greatly increase.
But I will go to a land men know not,—
A far, still land,
Where no birds come, and where roses blow not
And no trees stand:
A far, still land,
Where no birds come, and where roses blow not
And no trees stand:
363
Where no fruit grows, where no spring makes riot,
But, row on row,
Heavy and red and pregnant with quiet
The poppies blow.
But, row on row,
Heavy and red and pregnant with quiet
The poppies blow.
And there shall I be made whole of sorrow,
Have no more care,—
No bitter thought of the coming morrow,
Or days that were.
Have no more care,—
No bitter thought of the coming morrow,
Or days that were.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |