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 ::::THE GARDEN HERE the wet fields stretch away, away, And travellers never come, There is the land where my thoughts stray And the house I call my home.

No house had ever so deep a moat, Or such tall reeds round It, and no man ever Heard such lamentable trees Whispering In the fatal breeze! Will the keel of that strange boat Lying under the lilies there, Lying in weeds like drowned girl's hair, Ever rise again and float? Never did the wandering wind Press its sad invisible face 'Gainst such window-casements blind! Never did the night-hawk chase Thro' a sultrier, heavier night Moths so ghostly in their flight! Never did the wild swans fly Over such roofs of mystery! But do you think it is only of these Desperate, far-off, piteous, strange, That I dream, when you see my memory range? Do you think it is only of these? No! No! dear heart. If you had seen That inner garden with crumbling wall,