The Garden of Proserpine

Here where the world is quiet, here where all trouble seems
Dead winds and spent waves riot, in doubtful dreams of dreams
I watch the green field growing, for reaping folk and sowing
For harvest time and mowing, a sleepy world of streams

Sorrowed the garden of Proserpine
Winged in the garden of Proserpine
Crowned in the garden of Proserpine

There go the ones that wither, the old ones with wearier wings
And all dead years draw thither, and all disastrous things
Dead dreams of days forsaken, blind buds that snows have shaken
Wild leaves that winds have taken, red strays of ruined springs

I am tired of tears and laughter, and men that laugh and weep
Of what may come hereafter, for men that sow to reap
I am weary of days and hours, blown buds of barren flowers
Desires and dreams of powers, and everything but sleep

From too much love of living, from hope and fear set free
We thank with brief thanksgiving, whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever, that dead men rise up never
That even the weariest river, winds somewhere safe to sea

We are not sure of sorrow, and joy was never sure
Today will die tomorrow, time stoops to no man's lure
And love grown faint and fretful, with lips but half regretful
Sighs and with eyes forgetful, weeps that no loves endure