The Garden Of the Summer-Queen

Hanging soldier, rest you well

Upon a field of asphodel.

Dare not to thread the futile path,

For love lies bleeding from your wrath.

Hanged man, the bluebird's own,

Tells of the aloe you have sewn,

And deeper in the woods you'll see

The willow and the wormwood tree.

Hanging bare to nature's whim,

Upon the broom and black-rose limb,

And from the woods without delay,

Arise the sickly scent, decay.

Hanging body, in the fold

Of endless rows of marigold,

For never once the sweetbrier warns

The thistle hiding with its thorns.

Hanging soldier, rest you well,

Upon a field of asphodel,

The bluebird's song, a path to tread,

No more remorse among the dead.