I turn the towering  wave to quartz
I pin the painted.butterfly
And freeze the arching rainbow in
the dark-room of my Inner Eye

For not in meadows or the wood
nor strolling 'neath the breathing bower
It is in memory that I
distill the attar of the flower

The living lily wilts and dies
the evening fades and sunsets pass
and instants flutter from my grasp
as gold dust through an hour glass

And while the tuberose Is sweet
its scent is sweeter still, I find,
When wandering hidden byways in
the sunken gardens of my mind

Here through the prism of my dreams
My daylight visions crystallise.
Like relics trawled from turbid seas
now all is clearer to my eyes.