ON this old lawn, where lost hours pass <br />Across the shadows dark with dew, <br />Where autumn on the thick sweet grass <br />Has laid a weary leaf or two, <br />When the young morning, keenly sweet, <br />Breathes secrets to the silent air, <br />Happy is he whose lingering feet <br />May wander lonely there. <br /> <br /> <br />The enchantment of the dreaming limes, <br />The magic of the quiet hours, <br />Breathe unheard tales of other times <br />And other destinies than ours; <br /> <br /> <br />The feet that long ago walked here <br />Still, noiseless, walk beside our feet, <br />Poor ghosts, who found this garden dear, <br />And found the morning sweet! <br /> <br /> <br />Age weeps that it no more may hold <br />The heart-ache that youth clasps so close, <br />Pain finely shaped in pleasure's mould, <br />A thorn deep hidden in a rose. <br />Here is the immortal thorny rose <br />That may in no new garden grow-- <br />Its root is in the hearts of those <br />Who walked here long ago.<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/new-college-gardens-oxford/
