Along the garden terrace, under which <br />A purple valley (lighted at its edge <br />By smoky torch-flame on the long cloud-ledge <br />Whereunder dropped the chariot), glimmers rich, <br />A quiet company we pace, and wait <br />The dinner-bell in prae-digestive calm. <br />So sweet up violet banks the Southern balm <br />Breathes round, we care not if the bell be late: <br />Though here and there grey seniors question Time <br />In irritable coughings. With slow foot <br />The low rosed moon, the face of Music mute, <br />Begins among her silent bars to climb. <br />As in and out, in silvery dusk, we thread, <br />I hear the laugh of Madam, and discern <br />My Lady's heel before me at each turn. <br />Our tragedy, is it alive or dead?<br /><br />George Meredith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/modern-love-xxxvii-along-the-garden-terrace/
