Incipit
There’s an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams, Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams; Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey, And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday. There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there’s moss about the pool, And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool: In the silent sunken pathways springs an herbage sparse and spare, Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air. There is not a living creature in the lonely space around, A …
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Aucune entité de l’ontologie n’apparaît dans ce texte.