I pushed the narrow, wobbling door,
And strolled within a budding grove,
As morning light so softly strove,
Wet sequins on each petal's shore.
No thing had changed: the rattan chairs,
The humble pipe of maddened vine,
The purling spout, its silver spine,
The aspen old as dullest cares.
Still roses throb like wildest hearts,
Still lilies preen to walk the wind,
Still friends of mine these sweeping larks;
I found above the Veleda,
Thin plaster flaked at avenue's end,
Amidst faint scents of reseda.