LE JARDIN
12 lines✦
HE lily’s withered chalice fallsAround its rod of dusty gold,And from the beech-trees on the woldThe last wood-pigeon coos and calls. The gaudy leonine sunflowerHangs black and barren on its stalk,And down the windy garden walkThe dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour. Pale privet-petals white as milkAre blown into a snowy mass:The roses lie upon the grassLike little shreds of crimson silk.
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