From Last Poems of Alexander Robertson, 1918
(On Receiving Sketches of a Garden)
Fays of old could bring to view
By the magic of a wand
Visions longed for; even as you,
Keen of eye and skilled of hand,
Make my exile’s eyes to see,
Garden paths and branches bare,
Green of lawns where snowdrops be
And crowns of crocus brave the air.
Joy to see the pointed spire!
Like a great high-raised sword
Cleft it not the skies of fire
When the sunset hour was toward!
Ah, to see the buds that burst
In the spring, the blossom foam
From green bowls and slake the thirst
Of the eyes; beneath a dome,
Cool and green, for hours to lie
While, like maids, the daffodils
To the fleet winds courtesy;
See the ivy o’er the sills
Clamber, curious, as a child,
Eager for adventure, may
Enter some old ruin wild
To revel all a summer’s day—
Up and up the crumbling stairs
To the battlements on high.
Scathless, sure of foot he fares,—
Woods and fields below him lie,
Peasants labour on the farms,
Tiny men so far below.
Loud he shouts and waves his arms
So that they his feat may know;
Then in airy roofless halls
Walks and dungeon depths explores,
Wonders at the massive walls
And closed and iron-studded doors.
Ah, to watch the birds that hop
O’er the grass, to feel the breeze,
Or behold the blossoms drop
From the yet unladen trees,—
As a baron long ago
(So say chronicles) would gaze
At the slowly-falling snow
To beguile the winter days,
Not with haste these petals fall,
Wind-borne for awhile they float
Slow, as dies an echoed call
Or a dirge’s final note—
While the wind would thus bedeck
All the lawn with fallen flowers,
Time would pass but one would reck
Little of the passing hours.