This is the garden:colours come and go
Frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing
Strong silent greens serenely lingering
Absolute lights like baths of golden snow
This is the garden:pursed lips do blow
Upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing
(of harps celestial 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 hеre enraptured,as among
Thе slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
Some silver-fingered fountain steals the world