by John Jay Chapman (1862-1933)
I have a garden,—weeds paradise call it;
The moles hold the paths in fee;
The wild creepers rave
O’er the flowers’ grave,
O’er box-row and nodding pear-tree.
The heart-broken, moss-covered railings that wall it,
Have made an arbor for me;
And I lie in an angle
Of the dappled tangle
And dream of Energy.