An immortelle

There is a secret garden where I dwell

Hedged round about with thorn and Judas-tree,

Barred in with iron like a prison cell

And known to none but me.

Black rocks encircle it; the nightshade wreath

Twines in the bush its leaden-purple spray

And the rank hellebore, with poisoned breath,

Sighs on the air all day.

I loved it not, yet I was wont to go

To gaze my fill and all my plants compare,

To taste the bitter herbs that thrive and grow,

Spreading a carpet there.

But now, ’tis years, since, in that sorry place,

I swung the wicket; for, all gloriously,

A wingèd figure came with radiant face

And bore away the key.

And still—I have a little poison-flower

I gathered there; and, though I would forget,

I take it out in some friend-haunted hour

To find it living yet.