There's an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams, <br />Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams; <br />Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey, <br />And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday. <br />There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there's moss about the pool, <br />And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool: <br />In the silent sunken pathways springs a herbage sparse and spare, <br />Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air. <br />There is not a living creature in the lonely space arouna, <br />And the hedge~encompass'd d quiet never echoes to a sound. <br />As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find <br />When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind; <br />I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more, <br />As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before. <br />Then a sadness settles o'er me, and a tremor seems to start - <br />For I know the flow'rs are shrivell'd hopes - the garden is my heart.<br /><br />Howard Phillips Lovecraft<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-garden-56/
