I stood in an ancient garden With high red walls around；
Over them gray and green lichens In shadowy arabesque wound.
The topmost climbing blossoms On fields kine-haunted looked out；
But within were shelter and shadow， And daintiest odours about.
There were alleys and lurking arbours--Deep glooms into which to dive；
The lawns were as soft as fleeces--Of daisies I counted but five.
The sun-dial was so aged It had gathered a thoughtful grace；
And the round-about of the shadow Seemed to have furrowed its face.
The flowers were all of the oldest That ever in garden sprung；
Red， and blood-red， and dark purple， The rose-lamps flaming hung.
Along the borders fring閐
With broad thick edges of box， Stood fox-gloves and gorgeous poppies， And great-eyed hollyhocks.
There were junipers trimmed into castles， And ash-trees bowed into tents；
For the garden， though ancient and pensive， Still wore quaint ornaments.
It was all so stately fantastic， Its old wind hardly would stir：
Young Spring， when she merrily entered， Must feel it no place for her！
II.
I stood in the summer morning Under a cavernous yew；
The sun was gently climbing， And the scents rose after the dew.
I saw the wise old mansion， Like a cow in the noonday-heat， Stand in a pool of shadows That rippled about its feet.
Its windows were oriel and latticed， Lowly and wide and fair；
And its chimneys like clustered pillars Stood up in the thin blue air.
White doves， like the thoughts of a lady， Haunted it in and out；
With a train of green and blue comets， The peacock went marching about.
The birds in the trees were singing A song as old as the world， Of love and green leaves and sunshine， And winter folded and furled.
They sang that never was sadness But it melted and passed away；
They sang that never was darkness But in came the conquering day.
And I knew that a maiden somewhere， In a sober sunlit gloom， In a nimbus of shining garments， An aureole of white-browed bloom， Looked out on the garden dreamy， And knew not that it was old；
Looked past the gray and the sombre， And saw but the green and the gold.
III.
I stood in the gathering twilight， In a gently blowing wind；
And the house looked half uneasy， Like one that was left behind.
The roses had lost their redness， And cold the grass had grown；
At roost were the pigeons and peacock， And the dial was dead gray stone.
The world by the gathering twilight In a gauzy dusk was clad；
It went in through my eyes to my spirit， And made me a little sad.
Grew and gathered the twilight， And filled my heart and brain；
The sadness grew more than sadness， And turned to a gentle pain.
Browned and brooded the twilight， And sank down through the calm， Till it seemed for some human sorrows There could not be any balm.
IV.
Then I knew that， up a staircase， Which untrod will yet creak and shake， Deep in a distant chamber， A ghost was coming awake.
In the growing darkness growing--Growing till her eyes appear， Like spots of a deeper twilight， But more transparent clear--Thin as hot air up-trembling， Thin as a sun-molten crape， The deepening shadow of something Taketh a certain shape；
A shape whose hands are uplifted To throw back her blinding hair；
A shape whose bosom is heaving， But draws not in the air.
And I know， by what time the moonlight On her nest of shadows will sit， Out on the dim lawn gliding That shadow of shadows will flit.
V.
The moon is dreaming upward From a sea of cloud and gleam；
She looks as if she had seen us Never but in a dream.
Down that stair I know she is coming， Bare-footed， lifting her train；
It creaks not--she hears it creaking， For the sound is in her brain.
Out at the side-door she's coming， With a timid glance right and left！
Her look is hopeless yet eager， The look of a heart bereft.
Across the lawn she is flitting， Her eddying robe in the wind！
Are her fair feet bending the grasses？
Her hair is half lifted behind！
VI.
Shall I stay to look on her nearer？
Would she start and vanish away？
No， no； she will never see me， If I stand as near as I may！
It is not this wind she is feeling， Not this cool grass below；
'Tis the wind and the grass of an evening A hundred years ago.
She sees no roses darkling， No stately hollyhocks dim；
She is only thinking and dreaming Of the garden， the night， and him；
Of the unlit windows behind her， Of the timeless dial-stone， Of the trees， and the moon， and the shadows， A hundred years agone.
'Tis a night for all ghostly lovers To haunt the best-loved spot：
Is he come in his dreams to this garden？
I gaze， but I see him not.
VII.
I will not look on her nearer--My heart would be torn in twain；
>From mine eyes the garden would vanish In the falling of their rain！
I will not look on a sorrow That darkens into despair；
On the surge of a heart that cannot--Yet cannot cease to bear！
My soul to hers would be calling--She would hear no word it said；
If I cried aloud in the stillness， She would never turn her head！
She is dreaming the sky above her， She is dreaming the earth below：--
This night she lost her lover， A hundred years ago.
