She walks in a lonely garden
On the path her feet have made,
With high-heeled shoes, gold-buckled,
And gown of a flowered brocade;
The hair that falls on her shoulders,
Half-held with a ribbon tie,
Once glowed like the wheat in autumn,
Now grey as a winter sky.
Time on her brow with rough fingers
Writes record of smiles and tears;
Her mind, like a golden timepiece,
He stopped in the long past years.
At the foot of the lonely garden,
She comes to the trysting-place
She knew of old, there she lingers,
A blush on her withered face.
The children out on the common,
They climb to the garden wall,
And laugh, "He will come to-morrow!"
Who never will come at all.
And often over our sewing,
As I and my neighbour sit
We gossip over this story
That never had end to it,
"He is dead," I say, "that lover,
Who left her so long ago,"
My neighbour rests her needle
To answer, "He's false I know.
"For could it be he were sleeping,
With love that was such as this
He'd break through the gates of silence,
And hurry to meet her kiss."
Is she best worth tears or laughter,
This dame in her old brocade?
My neighbour says she is holy,
With her faith that will not fade.
The children out on the common,
They answer her dreary call,
And say, "He will come to-morrow!"
Who never will come at all.
