Here in this garden where the roses bloom,
And time is scarcely marked by silent days,
The walls and pear trees cast a pleasant gloom,
A wavy, weed-grown fountain softly plays.
And fate has left us listless for a while
Upon the brink of what we do not know;
Outside the walls a passing schoolboy calls,
And lumbering oxcarts rumble as they go.
Red roofs, a spire, white roads and poplar trees;
An aeroplane goes droning through the skies;
The petals fall, there is no breath of breeze;
The old dog by the sundial snaps at flies.
My comrades by the fountain are asleep.
Far on the lines I hear a great gun boom;
Here in the garden, though, white peace lies deep,
And in the limelight heat the roses bloom.