The Garden of Proserpine

Here, where the world is quiet ;

Here, where all trouble seems

Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot

In doubtful dreams of dreams ;

I watch the green field growing

For reaping folk and sowing,

For harvest-time and mowing,

A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,

And men that laugh and weep ;

Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap :

I am weary of days and hours,

Blown buds of barren flowers,

Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.

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