MY garden walks were smooth and green
And edged with box trees left and right,
An old grey sun-dial stood between
Two rounded bee hives, low and white.
My hollyhocks grew tall and red,
My larkspur thrust its lances high:
"The Night Cometh," the sun-dial said,
And I hated its wisdom and hurried by.
I watch the sun-dial as I wait
And hope to see its slow hand fly.
The stately poplars at the gate
Are funeral torches flaring high.
The scent of wallflowers breaks my heart,
The box is bitter in the sun,
The poppies burst their sheathes apart
And tell of rest when pain is done.
The hawthorn shakes a ghostly head
And breathes of death at fullest noon.
"The Night Cometh," the sun-dial said
The night can never come too soon.
O sun-dial, hurry your creeping hand,
Let the shadows fall where the brown bees hum,
I watch and wait where the low hives stand,
Let the night come, let the night come!
