There is a garden, grey With mists of autumntide; Under the giant boughs, Stretched green on every side, Along the lonely paths, A little child like me, With face, with hands, like mine, Plays ever silently; On, on, quite silently, When I am there alone, Turns not his head; lifts not his eyes; Heeds not as he plays on. After the birds are flown From singing in the trees, When all is grey, all silent, Voices, and winds, and bees; And I am there alone: Forlornly, silently, Plays in the evening garden Myself with me. |