In this sad place <br />Memory hangs on the air <br />Fragile as Spring snail's tiny shell, <br />Coming to the sympathetic ear <br />Gentle as bud's green pulsing in the sun, <br />Suave as sin in a black velvet glove; <br /> <br />The old faces gaze <br />Wistfully as birds, among the nodding leaves, <br />They watch the pleasures they may never share; <br />And through the twilight hours <br />Old voices call along the river banks, <br />And out of the high-walled garden. <br /> <br />Why do they sigh, <br />The gentle ones in the flowering musk; <br />And what are the words of the song <br />The pale stranger sings as he walks <br />The garden's still, deserted paths, <br />Like a boy searching for his dog?<br /><br />Henry Treece<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-haunted-garden/
