Haunted Garden

In this sad place

Memory hangs on the air

Fragile as Spring snail's tiny shell,

Coming to the sympathetic ear

Gentle as bud's green pulsing in the sun,

Suave as sin in a black velvet glove;

 

The old faces gaze

Wistfully as birds, among the nodding leaves,

They watch the pleasures they may never share;

And through the twilight hours

Old voices call along the river banks,

And out of the high-walled garden.

 

Why do they sigh,

The gentle ones in the flowering musk;

And what are the words of the song

The pale stranger sings as he walks

The garden's still, deserted paths,

Like a boy searching for his dog?

 

Henry Treece

Done