So red it grows –
not black or green – leaves/stem
race Time’s quick grasp.
COME into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the rose is blown.
Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron (1809–92)
From here to there falls
blossoms swimming through still air –