Over the broken fence The moonbeams trail their shrouds; Their tattered cerements Cling to the gauzy clouds, In ribbons frayed and thin-- And startled by the light, Silence shrinks deeper in The depths of night. Useless lie spades and rakes; Rust's on the garden-tools. Yet, where the moonlight makes Nebulous silver pools, A ghostly shape is cast-- Something unseen has stirred ... Was it a breeze that passed? Was it a bird? Dead roses lift their heads Out of a grassy tomb; From ruined pansy-beds A thousand pansies bloom. The gate is opened wide-- The garden that has been, Now blossoms like a bride ... _Who entered in?_ LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE DUSTY HOUR-GLASS It had been a trim garden, With parterres of fringed pinks and gillyflowers, and smooth-raked walks. Silks and satins had brushed the box edges of its alleys. The curved stone lips of its fishponds had held the rippled reflections of tricorns and powdered periwigs. The branches of its trees had glittered with lanterns, and swayed to the music of flutes and violins. Now, the fishponds are green with scum; And paths and flower-beds are run together and overgrown. Only at one end is an octagonal Summerhouse not yet in ruins. Through the lozenged panes of its windows, you can see the interior: A dusty bench; a fireplace, with a lacing of letters carved in the stone above it; A broken ball of worsted rolled away into a corner. _Dolci, dolci, i giorni passati!_ AMY LOWELL THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS I went out to the hazel wood Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream, And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor, I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And some one called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl, With apple-blossom in her hair, Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun. W. B. YEATS THE THREE CHERRY TREES