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