A Garden

There is an old garden
Behind the steep hill, Hidden under the weight of summer,
Tangled in the branches of the vine,
Where the roses sparkle like laughter,
And the sweet thyme dances
To the music of leaves trembling.

What treasure lies beneath the earth
In this fallen-in house
Where torn up roots crawl lazily to the air,
Where the blossoms hang on each sill?
From dusk to dawn, in quiet peace,
They whisper my name.

• Amy Lowell