BLOOMS OF THE BERRY.



           IN AN OLD GARDEN.

THE Autumn pines and fades
     Upon the withered trees;
   And over there, a choked despair,
     You hear the moaning breeze.

   The violets are dead;
     Dead the tall hollyhocks,
   That hang like rags on the wind-crushed flags,
     And the lilies' livid stocks.

   The wild gourd clambers free
     Where the clematis was wont;
   Where nenuphars waxed thick as stars
     Rank weeds stagnate the font.

   Yet in my dreams I hear
     A tinkling mandolin;
   In the dark blue light of a fragrant night
     Float in and out and in.

   And the dewy vine that climbs
     To my lady's lattice sways,
   And behind the vine there come to shine
     Two pleasant eyes and gaze.



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