A wind-torn place, its blossoms wakening only
To be despoiled by this fierce outlaw day;
I wait amid the blossoms, still and lonely,
The trees know best what little I would say,
How vain my strife against the winds, how vain
The shattered hour of sun, the ghosts of glory.
This garden is a half-remembered story,
Sung by the ragged minstrels of the rain.
Yet were my hands as brave in any hour
As now this laughing, white, unfearing rose,
Beauty had gained a little, in the dower
We who pass by leave in her garden close.
Knew I one word as wise as these old trees,
Then I were worthy some should call me friend.
Let the wind whet his steel . . . but here I tend
A momentary haven, on my knees.