Gardens of Remembrance


The boughs of May are weighed down by their youth;

The burden of their softness, petalled air

Descending now. The scent of drifting truth

Is everywhere,


How many years, these trees have seen the sight

Of budding mourning flowers, the lily’s fate;

The memory of suns, in whose cold light

To saturate.


Rose-white with joy, delighting in their pale

Frivolity, their flurry overhead

Is ghostly-bright, ageless and old, a tale

Of the blossoming dead.




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