<h3 id="Times_Garden">Time’s Garden</h3>
<p>YEARS are the seedlings which we careless sow<br/>
In Time’s bare garden. Dead they seem to be—<br/>
Dead years! We sigh and cover them with mould,<br/>
But though the vagrant wind blow hot, blow cold,<br/>
No hint of life beneath the dust we see;<br/>
Then comes the magic hour when we are old,<br/>
And lo! they stir and blossom wondrously.</p>
<p>Strange spectral blooms in spectral plots aglow!<br/>
Here a great rose and here a ragged tare;<br/>
And here pale, scentless blossoms without name,<br/>
Robbed to enrich this poppy formed of flame;<br/>
Here springs some hearts’ease, scattered unaware;<br/>
Here, hawthorn-bloom to show the way Love came;<br/>
Here, asphodel, to image Love’s despair!</p>
<p>When I am old and master of the spell<br/>
To raise these garden ghosts of memory,<br/>
My feet will turn aside from common ways,<br/><!-- Page 85 -->
Where common flowers mark the common days,<br/>
To one green plot; and there I know will be<br/>
Fairest of all (O perfect beyond praise!)<br/>
The year you gave, beloved, your rosemary.</p>
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