You have turned your back on Eden
And shut the garden gates
And trampled away through the bracken
To where your future waits
And the apple lies where you let it fall
And the serpent laughs at you from over the wall.
But perhaps, as you write by your window
On a day of tender spring
You will stop your work for a moment
To hear a blackbird sing
And will catch an echo, soft and clear,
Of faraway music you cannot hear.
Was there ever a quiet garden where the golden apples hung?
Where I walked with my love in the morning of the world when we both were young?
And the serpent shone with an oily gleam?
Or was it only the dream of a dream?