Your gardenís growing old. Its wallflowers wear
Richer-stained umber velvets, confident browns . . .
Your tiny sundial has the watchful air
Of the sad frost-cooled savant heart, that knows
Dragonfly dance and passing of a rose.
Each year the brooms encamp their gipsy towns
Of gold and silver, sure of welcome here.
Oh heart, thereís not a virginal keen bough
Freighted with moondrift blossom, but knows how
Itís destined for the later russet load . . .
I think I canít quite bear your glimpse of road
That knows so well what lies beyond the hill . . .
You, growing old; the silver dance grown still.