Walter De La Mare: THE SUNKEN GARDEN

Speak not — whisper not ;

Here bloweth thyme and bergamot ;

Softly on the evening hour,

Secret herbs their spices shower,

Dark- spiked rosemary and myrrh.

Lean-stalked, purple lavender ;

Hides within her bosom, too,

All her sorrows, bitter rue.

Breathe not — trespass not ;

Of this green and darkling spot.

Latticed from the moon's beams.

Perchance a distant dreamer dreams ;

Perchance upon its darkening air.

The unseen ghosts of children fare,

Faintly swinging, sway and sweep,

Like lovely sea- flowers in its deep ;

While, unmoved, to watch and ward,

'Mid its gloomed and daisied sward,

Stands with bowed and dewy head

That one little leaden Lad.

Photo: Pixabay