MYSELF
THERE is a garden, grey
With mists of autumntide;
Under the giant boughs,
Stretched green on every side,
Along the lonely paths,
A little child like me,
With face, with hands, like mine,
Plays ever silently;
On, on, quite silently,
When I am there alone,
Turns not his head; lifts not his eyes;
Heeds not as he plays on.
After the birds are flown
From singing in the trees,
When all is grey, all silent,
Voices, and winds, and bees;
And I am there alone:
Forlornly, silently,
Plays in the evening garden
Myself with me.
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