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.
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