A consequence of merriment and early summer Warmth, conspired to put him on that midnight lawn. Lying there supine, his innocent thoughts drift Amidst the sweet pungent scent of honeysuckle and mingle With the stale wine on his breath. There is beauty in decay He thinks, and only death and beauty can flower in creation. The supreme bounty of all is death and the life there in.
In the dark garden he dreams a little of paradise Not the mistake of paradise, but a consummate paradise Unsubstantiated, and free from the vestige of interpretation. It is here where all else is shadowed and dark, That he sees clearly a myriad of blossoming colours, Sharp transfusions of light that glow from leaf to blade. And he thinks to himself, as he dreams a little now, Amidst this broad wash of sunshine all around It cannot yet be midnight in the garden