The Weeping Garden

The garden is frightful! It drips, it listens: Is it in loneliness here, Crushing a branch like lace at a window, Or is there a witness near? The earth is heavy with swollen burdens; Smothered, the spongy weald. Listen! Afar, as though it were August, Night ripens in a field. No sound. Not a stranger around to spy. Feeling deserted, alone, It starts up again, dripping and tumbling On roof, gutter, flagstone. I'll bring it close to my lips, and listen: Am I in loneliness here, Ready to burst with tears in darkness, Or is there a witness near? Deep silence. Not even a leaf is astir. No gleam of light to be seen. Only choking sobs and the splash of slippers And sighs and tears between.