THE OLD GARDEN
I chanced upon the little bowered retreat
For the first time, and never shall forget
The spell of tangled mystery! The wet
Bejeweled leaves like fingers curled to meet
My childish hand; the unimagined sweet
Of briar, heliotrope, and mignonette;
The tang of box, and quainter blossoms set
By mazy paths for liliputian feet.
High walls of hollyhock and morning-glory
Concealed the ancient house with gables wide;
Shut out the world of swift and merry hours.
In the long silence of a fairy-story
My heart stood still. Then, at a turn I spied
My Mother, smiling at the other flowers.