Deserted Garden, The

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    <stroed Garden, The</strong>

    I mind me in the days departed,

    How often underh the sun

    With childish bounds I used to run

    To a garden loed.

    The beds and walks were vanished quite;

    And wheresoeer had struck the spade,

    The gree grasses Nature laid

    To sanctify her right.

    I called the place my wilderness,

    For no oered there but I;

    The sheep looked in, the gra<samp>９９lib?</samp>ss to espy,

    And passed it heless.

    The trees were interwoven wild,

    And spread their boughs enough about

    To keep both sheep and shepherd out,

    But not a happy child.

    Adventurous joy it was for me!

    I crept beh the boughs, a<figure></figure>nd found

    A circle smooth of mossy ground

    Beh a poplar tree.

    Old garden rose-trees hedged it in,

    Bedropt with roses waxen-white

    Well satisfied with dew and light

    And careless to be seen.

    Long years ago it might befall,

    When all the garden f<s>藏书网</s>lowers were trim,

    The grave old gardener prided him

    Ohe most of all.

    Some lady, stately overmuch,

    Here moving with a silken noise,

    Has blushed beside them at the voice

    That likened her to such.

    And these, to make a diadem,

    She often may have plucked and twined,

    Half-smiling as it came to mind

    That few would look at them.

    Oh, little thought that lady proud,

    A child would watch her fair white rose,

    When buried lay her whiter brows,

    And silk was ged for shroud!

    Nor thought that gardener, (full of ss

    For men unlearned and simple phrase,)

    A child would bring it all its praise

    By creeping through the thorns!

    To me upon my low moss seat,

    Though never a dream the roses sent

    Of sce or loves pliment,

    I ween they smelt as sweet.

    It did not move my grief to see

    The trace of human step departed:

    Because the garden was deserted,

    The blither plae!

    Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken

    Has childhood twixt the sun and sward;

    We draw the moral afterward,

    We feel the gladhen.

    And gladdest hours for me did glide

    In sile the rose-tree wall:

    A thrush made gladness musical

    Upoher side.

    Nor he nor I did eer ine

    To peck or pluck the blossoms white<abbr></abbr>;

    How should I know but roses might

    Lead lives as glad as mine?

    To make my hermit-home plete,

    I brought dear water from the spring

    Praised in its own low murmuring,

    And cresses glossy wet.

    And so, I thought, my likeness grew

    (Without the melancholy tale)

    To &quot;Gentle Hermit of the Dale,&quot;

    And Angelina too.

    For oft I read within my nook

    Such miories; till the breeze

    Made sounds poeti the trees,

    And then I shut the book.

    If I shut this wherein I write

    I hear no more the wind athwart

    Those trees, nor feel that childish heart

    Delighting in delight.

    My childhood from my life is parted,

    My footstep from the moss which drew

    Its fairy circle round: anew

    The garden is deserted.

    Ahrush may there rehearse

    The madrigals which sweetest are;

    No more for me! myself afar

    Do sing a sadder verse.

    Ah me, ah me! whe I lay

    In that childs- so greenly wrought,

    I laughed unto myself and thought

    &quot;The time will pass away.&quot;

    And still I laughed, and did not fear

    But that, wheneer ast away

    The childish time, some happier play

    My womanhood would cheer.

    I khe time would pass away,

    A, beside the rose-tree wall,

    Dear God, how seldom, if at all,

    Did I look up to pray!

    The time is past; and now that grows

    The cypress high among the trees,

    And I behold<abbr></abbr> white sepulchres

    As well as the white rose, --

    When graver, meeker thoughts are given,

    And I have learnt to lift my face,

    Reminded how earths gree place

    The color draws from heaven, --

    It something saith for earthly pain,

    But more for Heavenly promise free,

    That I who was, would shrink to be

    That happy child again.

    <strong>Elizabeth Barrett Browning</strong>

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