In gardens when the sun is set,
The air is heavy with the wet
Faint smell of leaves, and dark incense
Of peach-blossom and violet.
There is no lurking foe to fear,
Only the friendly ghosts are here
Of lazy youth and dozing age,
Who sat and mellowed year by year,
Until they merged with all the rest
Beneath the overhanging west,
And took their sleep with tranquil hearts
Safe in our Mother's mighty breast.
If there be any sound, 'tis sweet,
The hidden rush of eager feet
Where robins flutter in the dust,
Or perch upon the garden-seat,
And little voices that are known
To those who contemplate alone
The busy universe that moves
In gardens rank and overgrown.
Here in the garden we are one,
The golden dust, the setting sun,
The languid leaves, the birds and I,—
Small bubbles on oblivion.