I live in a beautiful garden,

All joyous with fountains and flowers;

I reck not of penance or pardon,

At ease thro’ the exquisite hours.

My blossoms of lilies and pansies,

Pale heliotrope, rosemary, rue,

All lull me with delicate fancies

As shy as the dawn and the dew.

But the ghost—Gods—the ghost in the gloaming,

How it lures me with whispers and cries,

How it speaks of the wind and the roaming,

Free, free, ’neath the Romany skies.

’Tis the hedge that is crimson with roses,

All wonderfully crimson and gold,

And caged in my beautiful closes

I know what it is to be old.