Beyond that wall, whose ancient masonry
reached almost to the sky in moss-thick towers,
there would be terraced gardens, rich with flowers,
and flutter of bird and butterfly and bee.
There would be walks, and bridges arching over
warm lotus-pools reflecting temple eaves,
and cherry-trees with delicate boughs and leaves
against a pink sky where the herons hover.
reached almost to the sky in moss-thick towers,
there would be terraced gardens, rich with flowers,
and flutter of bird and butterfly and bee.
There would be walks, and bridges arching over
warm lotus-pools reflecting temple eaves,
and cherry-trees with delicate boughs and leaves
against a pink sky where the herons hover.
All would be there, for had not old dreams flung
open the gate to that stone-lanterned maze
where drowsy streams spin out their winding ways,
trailed by green vines from bending branches hung?
I hurried - but when the wall rose, grim and great,
I found there was no longer any gate.
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