In The Garden Of Dreams

From a brier-grown garden that nobody knows,
Save one lone bird with a vagrant tune,
The dreamer gathers a last sad rose,—
The ghost of a season that once was June.

Pale are the blossoms that cluster here,
And lonesome the song of the mateless bird;
Yet linger and listen, O sweet and dear,—
You shall catch of my soul the secret word.

I hang this ivy at your postern door.
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