The Garden Of Death

There is an isle in an unfurrowed

That I wot of, whereon the whole year

The apple-blossoms and the rosebuds

In early blooming ; and a many

Of ten-stringed lute, and most mellifluous

Of silver flute, and mellow half-heard horn,

Making unmeasured music.

Thither

Coming like Love, takes all things in the

Of tenderest life, and being a delicate god,

In his own garden takes each delicate

Unstained, unmellowed, immature, untrod,

Tremulous betwixt the summer and the spring :

The rosebud ere it come to be a rose,

The blossom ere it win to be a fruit,

The virginal snowdrop, and the dove that

Only one dove for lover ; all the

Of young soft things, and all the

Of unripe flowers.

Never comes the

To matron fulness, here no

Vexes desire, and the sun knows no noon.

But all the happy dwellers of that

Are reckless children gotten on

By Beauty that is thrall to Death ; no grace,

No natural sweet they lack, a

Of perfect beauty each.

No wisdom

To mar their early folly, no false

Man-made for man, no mouthing prudence

Their green unthought, or gives their licence pause ;

Young animals, young flowers, they live and grow,

And die before their sweet emblossomed

Has learnt to sigh save like a lover's.

Oh !

How sweet is Youth, how delicate is Death !