It will not last forever, secret
Gardens too get old,
And in the icy morning you
Complain my feet are cold,

There were no wings of love as aid;
I had to climb the wall,
And tearing all the ivy off
It stood exposed and tall.

I do not want to hear the speech
That's caught inside your yawn:
"I know of secret gardens, this;
They don't stretch on and on."

And though our muted presence,
It leaves a funny stain,
We watch the fountains fall asleep
And freeze with English rain,

And through that stony quiet
The aching morning brings
I'm resolute and silent
And mum of holy things.

Even though their memories
Are hidden and unseen,
The blades of grass, caressing,
Tell what the stones have seen;

They're messagers in gardens
That speak up as they bloom,
But timeless, starving mornings
Are twilight in the gloom.

You're quick love, to accept it,
When leaves drip on your head,
That knowledge still consumes us:
We're faithful to the dead.

If I leave secret gardens,
I swear to you, my dear,
If I go bleeding somewhere else
I will not leave you here.