Garden of Hesperides, divine
And golden garden shining in mine eyes,
Dream or reality? what paths shall twine
Unto thy shores, O Paradise of mine?
So to his dream the pilgrim makes repine
Falling in mire and blood amid his sighs.
To seek this garden destiny is thine,
But never shalt behold it anywise.
Never to see it, for it lives alone
Within the bosoms that have sorrow known,
The treasure-house of all their fantasy
In vain thine arid eye its gates would find;
The prose of life is all too near the mind,
And far too far away is Poesy!
Translation by Thomas Walsh