Le Jardin
THE lily’s withered chalice fallsAround its rod of dusty gold,And from the beech-trees on the woldThe last wood-pigeon coos and calls.
The gaudy leonine sunflowerHangs black and barren on its stalk,And down the windy garden walkThe dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour.
Pale privet-petals white as milkAre blown into a snowy mass:The roses lie upon the grassLike little shreds of crimson silk.