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I own a solace shut within my heart,
  A garden full of many a quaint delight
  And warm with drowsy, poppied sunshine; bright,
Flaming with lilies out of whose cups dart
    Shining things
    With powdered wings.


Here terrace sinks to terrace, arbors close
  The ends of dreaming paths; a wanton wind
  Jostles the half-ripe pears, and then, unkind,
Tumbles a-slumber in a pillar rose,
    With content
    Grown indolent.


By night my garden is o'erhung with gems
  Fixed in an onyx setting. Fireflies
  Flicker their lanterns in my dazzled eyes.
In serried rows I guess the straight, stiff stems
    Of hollyhocks
    Against the rocks.


So far and still it is that, listening,
  I hear the flowers talking in the dawn;
  And where a sunken basin cuts the lawn,
Cinctured with iris, pale and glistening,
    The sudden swish
    Of a waking fish.