The Inner Garden

 

In the late twilight of early spring,

Before the moon rises,

When the weeds close their deceptive flowers,

And the birds, about to sleep, sing –

 

In one of the last years

Of what seemed an everlasting youth,

While considering the unexpected prizes

And some disliked words of truth –

 

During these almost evening hours,

After the sun sinks

And the first star appears

Imperceptibly in the east -

 

I find that what I valued most,

The sad phantom of my false endurance,

Fades, and leaves

Nothing behind,

While on my hand

The ring you gave me gives

Happiness of a new kind:

 

So in the spring

I start the clearance

Of all the violet sorrowful weeds,

Hoping one day to bring

You real flowers

Grown from good seeds.