Trees have grown to the edge of the gate
Where grey-bearded lichens cling;
The greenwoods stand in a ring,
Holding the garden-pearl in their centre
A jewel inviolate.
Heart of mine, shall we enter?
There is a charm of sleep in the air,
Weft of Time's humming loom.
There in the green half-gloom
I think some intangible spirit hovers ...
They say the dim wraiths dwell there
Of countless, long-dead lovers.
Warp of sleep and woof of love:
The flush of a live rose glows
By the pallid death of the rose,
A song next the hush that stilled its numbers:
Such is the web Time wove.
Dare we disturb their slumbers?
We stand on the outskirts, you and I—
Shall we not venture in?
They will condone the sin,
Those dim, dead lovers, will smile and pardon,
For our honeymoon hangs in the sky.
Heart of mine, into the garden!