The door was shut. I looked between Its iron bars; and saw it lie, My garden, mine, beneath the sky, Pied with all flowers bedewed and green:
From bough to bough the song-birds crossed, From flower to flower the moths and bees; With all its nests and stately trees It had been mine, and it was lost.
A shadowless spirit kept the gate, Blank and unchanging like the grave. I peering through said: 'Let me have Some buds to cheer my outcast state.'
He answered not. 'Or give me, then, But one small twig from shrub or tree; And bid my home remember me Until I come to it again.'
The spirit was silent; but he took Mortar and stone to build a wall; He left no loophole great or small Through which my straining eyes might look:
So now I sit here quite alone Blinded with tears; nor grieve for that, For nought is left worth looking at Since my delightful land is gone.
A violet bed is budding near, Wherein a lark has made her nest: And good they are, but not the best; And dear they are, but not so dear.