Works

For years it had been neglected,
This wilderness garden of ours,
And its ruin had shone reflected
In its pools through abandoned hours.
For none had cared for its beauty...

A sunny court with wooden balconies,
And wool hung out to dry in gaudy skeins,
A fountain, and some pigeons murmuringly
Picking up yellow grains.

Pass through a little tumble-down green door...

I would not venture to dispraise or praise.
Too well I know the indifference which bounds
A poet in the narrow working-grounds
Where he is blind and deaf in all his ways.
...