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Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,

Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,

Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -

Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

 

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams,

A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust;

It will drink deeply of a century's streams,

These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

 

Here in their safe and simple house of death,

Sealed in their shells a million roses leap,

Here I can blow a garden with my breath,

And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

 

(Muriel Stuart)

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