Along the crumbling walls grey lichens creep.
Nothing will grow but drowsy poppy seeds
That hold the listless chalices of sleep
In a child’s garden, covered up with weeds.
I will go now and find some ordered place
Of lawns and old-time gardens, where the earth
Has grown with aging like a lovely face
That is not greatly stirred by any mirth.
No passions storm or sadden in her eyes;
No follies jingle bells along her street;
And every grief, grown decorous and wise,
Must go his ways with patient lips and feet.
A little smoke from dead-leaf memories
Shall curl, blue-grey; and I will dwell beside
A wood where blackbirds call, where the old trees
Harbour no dreams save those grown quiet-eyed.
Here, where good rain is given to careful lawns,
Perhaps my peace will slowly come to flower,
And I forget the scent of troubled dawns,
The broken petals of a magic hour.