There is a secret garden where I dwell
Hedged round about with thorn and Judas-tree,
Barred in with iron like a prison cell
And known to none but me.
Black rocks encircle it; the nightshade wreath
Twines in the bush its leaden-purple spray
And the rank hellebore, with poisoned breath,
Sighs on the air all day.
I loved it not, yet I was wont to go
To gaze my fill and all my plants compare,
To taste the bitter herbs that thrive and grow,
Spreading a carpet there.
But now, ’tis years, since, in that sorry place,
I swung the wicket; for, all gloriously,
A wingèd figure came with radiant face
And bore away the key.
And still—I have a little poison-flower
I gathered there; and, though I would forget,
I take it out in some friend-haunted hour
To find it living yet.
❦