Here in a quiet and dusty room they live, Faded as crumbled stone and shifting sand, Forlom as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry- Meadows and gardens running through my hand.
Dead that shall quicken at the voice of spring, Sleepers to wake beneath June's tempest kiss; Though birds pass over, unremembering, And no bee find here roses that were his.
In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams; A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust That shall drink deeply at a century's streams; These lilies shall make summer on my dust.
Here in their safe and simple house of death, Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap; Here I can stir a garden with my breath, And in my hand a forest lies asleep.
