IN AN OLD GARDEN

The autumn glory fades Upon the withered trees; And over all the dead leaves fall And whisper in the breeze. The violets are dead, And dead the hollyhocks, That hang like rags by the wind-crushed flags And tiger-lily stocks. The wild gourd clambers free Where the clematis was wont; Where nenuphars bloomed thick as stars Rank weeds fill up the fount. Yet, as in dreams, I hear A tinkling mandolin In the dark-blue light of a fragrant night Float in and out and in. Till the dewy vine, that climbs To a casement's lattice, sways; And behind the vine, like stars that shine, Two dark eyes gleam and gaze. And now a perfume comes, A swift Favonian gust; And the shrivelled grass, where it doth pass, Bows worshiping to the dust. I seem to see her drift From tree to moonlit tree, In her jewelled shawl divinely tall, A mist of drapery. And one awaits her there By the broken Psyche old; And there they stand, pale hand in hand, Her thin wrists hooped with gold. But a wind sweeps overhead, And the frosty leaves are strewn— And nothing is there but a bough, blown bare, And the light of the ghostly moon.