Why is it that some silent places thrill With elfin comradeship, and others fill The heart with sickening loneliness? My breast Seems hollow for great emptiness, unrest Casting my eyes about my garden where I still must live, breathing its lifeless air. Why should I have a garden anyway? I have so many friends who pass the day In streets or squares, or little barren courts, I fancy there are gardens of all sorts, Far worse than mine. And who has this delight: There’s my syringa with its blooms of white! It flourishes in my garden! In this brief Season of blossoms and unfolding leaf What if I like my garden not but love The oak tree and the lilac tree thereof, And hide my face, lest one my rapture guess, Amid the white syringa’s loveliness? THE TAVERN (_For my daughter Madeline_) Nothing disturbed my night of sleep, I wonder that I ever woke It was so heavy, was so deep I scarce had heard the thunder-stroke. So what was drinking, feasting, talking By guests who came and guests who went, Or those who spent the time in walking The halls and rooms in argument About the Tavern? Some declared No better Tavern could be built. And others called it a deception, Its purest gold but thinnest gilt, A cruel cheat considering No other Tavern gave reception To folks who might be wayfaring Anywhere in the whole wide land. I woke a stranger to it all, But quickly grew to understand The ways and customs which prevailed: Those who won favor, those who failed; What feasting rooms had echoed laughter; What kisses stolen in what hall; What corners where the old had cried; What stairways where the breathless bride Paused for a moment just to toss Among the bridesmaids her bouquet; What rooms where men in work or play Approved or cursed for gain or loss The Tavern’s roof-tree, roof and rafter.