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A Hill To Die Upon
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The Garden
There's faery in this garden
I cannot bear to hear him sing：
'Thee sculptors all pursuing,
Have embodied but their own;
Round their visions, form enduring,
Marble vestments thou hast thrown'
There's faery in my garden
I cannot bear to hear him sing:
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'But thyself, in silence winding,
Thou hast kept eternally
Thee they found not, many finding
I have found thee, wake for me.'
'Hear my voice come through the golden
Mist of memory and hope;
And with shadowy smile embolden
Me with primal death to cope.'
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