the lily’s withered chalice falls

around its rod of dusty gold,
and from the beech-trees on the wold
the last wood-pigeon coos and calls.

the gaudy leonine sunflower
hangs black and barren on its stalk,
and down the windy garden walk
the dead leaves scatter, hour by hour.

pale privet-petals white as milk
are blown into a snowy mass:
the roses lie upon the grass
tike little shreds of crimson silk.

oscar wilde - le jardin