Oh! the calm summer garden where nothing moves!
Unless it be, near the middle of the bright and
radiant pond, the goldfish like tongues of fire.
They are our memories playing in our thoughts
that are calm and stilled and limpid, like the
trustful and restful water.
And the water brightens and the fishes leap at
the abrupt and marvellous sun, not far from the
green irises and the white shells and stones,
motionless about the ruddy edges.
And it is sweet to watch them thus come and go
in the freshness and splendour that touches them
lightly, careless and without fear that they
will bring from the depths to the surface other
regrets than fleeting.