It had been a trim garden,
With parterres of fringed pinks and gillyflowers,
and smooth-raked walks.
Silks and satins had brushed the box edges
of its alleys.
The curved stone lips of its fishponds
had held the rippled reflections of tricorns and powdered periwigs.
The branches of its trees had glittered with lanterns,
and swayed to the music of flutes and violins.

Now, the fishponds are green with scum;
The paths and flower-beds
are run together and overgrown.
Only at one end is an octagonal Summer-house
not yet in ruins.
Through the lozenged panes of its windows,
you can see the interior:
A dusty bench; a fireplace
with a lacing of letters carved in the stone above it;
A broken ball of worsted
rolled away into a corner.

Dolci, dolci, i giorni passati!