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Poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson


The Garden of Shadow


Love heeds no more the sighing of the wind
Against the perfect flowers: thy garden's close
Is grown a wilderness, where none shall find
One strayed, last petal of one last year's rose.

O bright, bright hair! O mouth like a ripe fruit!
Can famine be so nigh to harvesting?
Love, that was songful, with a broken lute
In grass of graveyards goeth murmuring.

Let the wind blow against the perfect flowers,
And all thy garden change and glow with spring:
Love is grown blind with no more count of hours
Nor part in seed-time nor in harvesting. 



Ernest Christopher Dowson


Ernest Christopher Dowson's other poems:
  1. Quid Non Supremus, Amantes?
  2. Epigram
  3. Villanelle of Marguerite's
  4. Amor Umbratilis
  5. Soli Cantare Periti Arcades


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