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,
And the hedge~encompass’d quiet never echoes to a sound.
As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find
When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;
I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,
As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.
Then a sadness settles o’er me, and a tremor seems to start –
For I know the flow’rs are shrivell’d hopes – the garden is my heart.

As if that poem wasn’t good enough, now you get to hear it in my dulcet tones.

Plus, you get to hear the poem that I may or may not have nicked a line from to end one of my own poems.

Yes, it turns out that the “gentleman of Providence” was capable of writing more than eldritch horror and barely contained racism—despite what the SJWs who are fighting tooth and nail to purge his memory would have you think, he could write some pretty damn good poetry as well.

Music: Adagio in B Flat Major by Antonio Salieri

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