The dead garden where birds sing no more.

Alas, it pleasure gives no longer,

lost and gone forever,

now just an enclosed emptiness.

High stone walls protecting still

but only tufted grasses swaying now,

where once was such delight.

No wasps guarding glossy brambles

or squabbling thrushes feasting on the cherry.

The tiny burn now murmurs lonely

flowing through into the loch

where still the moorhens nest.

No strawberry nets with thieving blackbirds,

no plums and pears sunning on the south wall,

no scent of dark rich well-tilled soil.

The butterflylike sweet peas all flown away

with the fragrance of velvety roses.

All absorbed into the eternal earth,

like those who once so happily wandered there.