I walk down the garden paths,And all the daffodilsAre blowing, and the bright blue squills.I walk down the patterned garden-pathsIn my stiff, brocaded gown.With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,I too am a rarePattern. As I wander downThe garden paths.My dress is richly figured,And the trainMakes a pink and silver stainOn the gravel1, and the thriftOf the borders.Just a plate of current fashion,Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.Not a softness anywhere about me,Only whalebone and brocade.And I sink on a seat in the shadeOf a lime tree. For my passionWars against the stiff brocade.The daffodils and squillsFlutter in the breezeAs they please.And I weep;For the lime-tree is in blossomAnd one small flower has dropped upon my bosom2.And the plashing of waterdropsIn the marble fountainComes down the garden-paths.The dripping never stops.Underneath3 my stiffened4 gownIs the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,A basin in the midst of hedges grownSo thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,But she guesses he is near,And the sliding of the waterSeems the stroking of a dearHand upon her.What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.All the pink and silver crumpled5 up
