O quiet garden wherein nothing moves
Save, in the glassy lake,
The crimson fishes, each
A fiery flake.
They are the memories that play within our thought,
Calm and undistraught
And clear, as in the water's breast
Of confidence and rest.
The red fish leap and the clear water wells,
In the abrupt and potent light,
Amid the iris green and bleaching shells
And motionless stones
Around the border bright.
It is sweet to see them come and go
In all the freshness and lucidity
That bathes them so;
We have no need to fear or fret
Lest they should bring up from below
Other than a fugitive regret.