The Gardener

WITHIN this garden space are set Sweet mignonette and violet, Sunk in rich mould; at dawn and night Their leaves dew-wet. Who set them in the kindly loam Lies buried 'neath the clover-foam Of alien meadows, far away From his loved home. If it be glory thus to pass For Honour's sake, and 'neath the grass Red-wounded lie, then he, in truth, Great glory has. Yet, blossoms that he loved and set! — Sweet mignonette, sweet violet — Not Honour's self, nor Glory's crown, Can stay regret. 'Twixt bud of leaf and fall of leaf, Why should Fate in an hour so brief Wreck flower and flower, and nurse alone The cypress — Grief? He is not gone — not all of him; For trees have memories; leaf and limb Shall breathe his name, and grateful flowers At twilight dim. For like these blooms, he left behind Some fragrance, subtle and refined — A memoried sweetness that shall haunt Tree, flower and wind.