frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing
strong silent greens serenely lingering
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden： pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms and sing
（of harps celestial to the quivering string）
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.
This is the garden. Time shall surely reap
and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled
in other lands where other songs be sung；
yet stand They here enraptured as among
The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.