this is the garden: colours come and go,    frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing    strong silent greens serenely lingering,
 
        absolute lights like baths of golden snow.

This is the garden: pursed lips do blow       upon cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing
                                                                                 (of harps celestial to the quivering string)
                                                         invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

         This is the garden.   Time shall surely reap               and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,
                 in other lands where other songs be sung;
 
                                                            yet stand They here enraptured, as among
 

        The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep,                                                some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
 
 
 

-e e cummings