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Collected poems

By Austin Dobson: Ninth edition
Dobson, Austin (1840-1921)
  
[epigraph]

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[section]
  
[To you I sing, whom towns immure]
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OLD-WORLD IDYLLS
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PROVERBS IN PORCELAIN
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VIGNETTES IN RHYME
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MISCELLANEOUS PIECES
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AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE
  
[“At the Sign of the Lyre,”]
  
THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S
  
THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR
  
TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY
  
THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS
  
THE MASQUE OF THE MONTHS
  
TWO SERMONS
  
“AU REVOIR”
  
THE CARVER AND THE CALIPH
  
TO AN UNKNOWN BUST IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM
  
MOLLY TREFUSIS
  
AT THE CONVENT GATE
  
THE MILKMAID
  
AN OLD FISH POND
  
AN EASTERN APOLOGUE
  
TO A MISSAL OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY
  
A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC
  
A MADRIGAL
  
A SONG TO THE LUTE
  
A GARDEN SONG
  
A CHAPTER OF FROISSART
  
TO THE MAMMOTH-TORTOISE
  
A ROMAN ROUND-ROBIN
  
VERSES TO ORDER
  
A LEGACY
  
“LITTLE BLUE-RIBBONS”
  
LINES TO A STUPID PICTURE
  
A FAIRY TALE
  
TO A CHILD
  
HOUSEHOLD ART
  
THE DISTRESSED POET
  
JOCOSA LYRA
  
MY BOOKS
  
THE COLLECTOR TO HIS LIBRARY
  
THE BOOK-PLATE'S PETITION
  
THE WATER OF GOLD
  
A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE
  
DON QUIXOTE
  
A BROKEN SWORD
  
THE POET'S SEAT
  
THE LOST ELIXIR
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MEMORIAL VERSES
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FABLES OF LITERATURE AND ART
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TALES IN RHYME
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VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ
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VARIA
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PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES
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ESSAYS IN OLD FRENCH FORMS
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CARMINA VOTIVA
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LUDIBRIA VENTIS
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LATER POEMS
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ADDITIONS AND TRANSLATIONS
  
[In after days when grasses high]

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258

A GARDEN SONG

(TO W. E. H.)

Here, in this sequestered close,
Bloom the hyacinth and rose;
Here beside the modest stock
Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;
Here, without a pang, one sees
Ranks, conditions, and degrees.
All the seasons run their race
In this quiet resting place;
Peach, and apricot, and fig
Here will ripen, and grow big;
Here is store and overplus,—
More had not Alcinoüs!
Here, in alleys cool and green,
Far ahead the thrush is seen;
Here along the southern wall
Keeps the bee his festival;
All is quiet else—afar
Sounds of toil and turmoil are.
259

Here be shadows large and long;
Here be spaces meet for song;
Grant, O garden-god, that I,
Now that none profane is nigh,—
Now that mood and moment please,—
Find the fair Pierides!
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