The Garden

by Sara Teasdale
My heart is a garden tired with autumn,
 Heaped with bending asters and dahlias heavy and dark,
In the hazy sunshine, the garden remembers April,
 The drench of rains and a snow-drop quick and clear as a spark;
Daffodils blowing in the cold wind of morning,
 And golden tulips, goblets holding the rain —
The garden will be hushed with snow, forgotten soon, forgotten —
 After the stillness, will spring come again?