Henry Austin Dobson (1840–1921)

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 Alcinous!

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!