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Ruined And Forsaken Gardens

withered sunflowers

Today I’m going to read two short poems, and the first one is "Ruined Gardens" by Oscar Wilde.

The lily's withered chalice falls

Around its rod of dusty gold,

And from the beech-trees on the wold

The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.

The gaudy leonine sunflower

Hangs black and barren on its stalk,

And down the windy garden walk

The dead leaves scatter, - hour by hour.

Pale privet-petals white as milk

Are blown into a snowy mass:

The roses lie upon the grass

Like little shreds of crimson silk.

And the next poem is by Algernon Charles Swinburne who wrote about "A Forsaken Garden" in the stanza that follows.

The dense hard passage is blind and stifled

That crawls by a track none turn to climb

To the strait waste place that the years have rifled

Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time.

The thorns he spares when the rose is taken;

The rocks are left when he wastes the plain.

The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken,

These remain.

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