***

Every place have a number of lives —
Then it’s wasting them one after one:
First the owners are suddenly blown —
By a season, a fashion, or knives;

Hence the gardener’s craftsmanship loses
All the senses and eyes it was for;
And the gardener locks the door,
Letting up his botanical ruses.

But his room doesn’t stay in neglect:
Birds are clinging their nests to the beams,
And the nestlings begin to scream
And the eggshells lie everywhere, speckled.

And some flowers were left by the door-wing —
there they wither and solemnly dry.
Autumn hastes to conquer the sky,
And the swallows have left the building.