Low lines of leaden clouds sweep by Across the gold sun and blue sky, Which still are there eternally. Above the sodden garden-bed Droop empty flower-stalks, dry and dead, Where the tall lily bent its head Over carnations white and red.
The leafless poplars, straight and tall, Stand by the gray-green garden wall, From which such rare fruit used to fall. In the verandah, where of old Sweet August spent the roses' gold, Round the chill pillars, shivering, fold Garlands of rose-thorns, sharp with cold.
And we, by cosy fireside, muse On what the Fates grant, what refuse; And what we waste and what we use. Summer returns--despite the rain That weeps against the window-pane. Who'd weep--'mid fame and golden gain-- For youth, that does not come again?
Blue sky, gray arches, and white, white cloud; Gray eyes, white hands, and a free, white crowd Of wheeling, whirling, fluttering things-- Pink feet, bright feathers, and wide, warm wings. Thousands of pigeons all the year Fly in and out of the arches here.
What prisoned hands have torn at the stone Where your soft hand lies--oh my heart!--alone? What prisoned eyes have grown blind with tears To see what we see after all these years-- The free, broad river go smoothly by And the free, blithe birds 'neath the free, blue sky?
And now--O Time, how you work your will! --The pitiless walls are standing still, But the wall-flowers blossom on every ledge, And the wild rose garlands the walls' sheer edge, And where once the imprisoned heart beat low, The beautiful pigeons fly to and fro!
In the sad, stern arches they build and pair, As happy as dreams and as free as air, And sorrow and longing and life-long pain Man brings not into these walls again; And yet--O my love, with the face of flowers-- What do we bring in these hearts of ours?
"And we said how dreary and desolate and forlorn the church was, and how long it was since any music but that of the moth-eaten harmonium and the heartless mixed choir had sounded there. And we said: 'Poor old church! it will never hear any true music any more'. Then she turned to us from the door of the Lady Chapel, which was plastered and whitewashed, and had a stove and the Evangelical Almanac in it, and her eyes were full of tears. And, standing there, she sang 'Ave Maria'--it was Gounod's music, I think--with her voice and her face like an angel's. And while she sang a stranger came to the church door and stood listening, but he did not see us. Only we saw that he loved her singing. And he went away as soon as the hymn was ended, we also soon following, and the church was left lonely as before."--_Extract from our Diary._