The Garden

There is a dark garden
Where stone vines curl,
Where shadows repose
‘Neath trees of stained pearl
Watering thorns of the onyx rose

Hanging o’er mirrors
Where swims the starlight
And spheres without aim
Their banks glowing bedight
In violets of flame.

High granite leaves
Dressed in webs of crystal
Hanging o’er the silver grass
Where grows the iron thistle
In moonbows of brass

Sigh eldritch and still
As the mourners cross
Paths by gravestone wrought
Weeping crestfallen their loss
With blooms grieving not.

And by steel daffodils
Death in silence looks on
The silence desolate
While no fair dawn
Passes the rosemary gate

Only a long, deep night
Graces that ill lawn
And specters on the brim
Where the glass pools yawn
In woe eternal swim.

And the wind is screaming
Between the high trees gleaming,
And the stars are weeping
For the terror sleeping
In the sorrow of that garden
In the eternal sorrow of that garden…