Here in this sequester’d close Bloom the hyacinth and rose, Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and degrees.
All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach and apricot and fig Here will ripen and grow big; Here is store and overplus, More had not Alcinoüs!
Here, in alleys cool and green, Far ahead the thrush is seen; Here along the southern wall Keeps the bee his festival; All is quiet else—afar Sounds of toil and turmoil are.
Here be shadows large and long; Here be spaces meet for song; Grant, O garden-god, that I, Now that none profane is nigh, Now that mood and moment please, Find the fair Pierides!
