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Having opened the narrow
wobbly gate of an hour,
I took myself for a walk in the little garden
Illuminated by the sun at dawn,
Spangling with a humid spark each flower.
Nothing had changed. Again:
the humble bower
Of wild vine with chairs of rattan inwoven...
Ever its silvery murmur made the fountain
And the old aspen its sempiternal glower.
The roses as once quivered
there; as once,
The great proud lilies swayed there in the wind.
Each skylark coming and going there I knew.
I even found upright to this
day the Veleda,
Whose plaster was flaking at the tip of the avenue
—Pockmarked, amid the bland odor of reseda.
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