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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - To One In A Garden
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If I were other than, alas, I am,
 A soul in strife, whom banded foemen vex,
 If toil were folly and good deeds a sham,
 And hydra wrong had shed its serpent necks,
 And life`s dark problems could no more perplex,
 How sweet it were, forgotten of all blame,
 In that far garden which your summer decks
 To dream with you that grief was but a name.
 --Ay, dream! For waking which of us were wise
 To spell grief`s epitaph? Some tears must be
 Even in the herald hour of your sunrise.
 And in the night? Ah, child, what misery,
 Think you, awaits us when life`s flood--gates strain
 To the full deluge of the descending rain?
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