Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie, br Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand, br Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry - br Meadows and gardens running through my hand. br br In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams; br A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust br That will drink deeply of a century's streams; br These lilies shall make summer on my dust. br br Here in their safe and simple house of death, br Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap; br Here I can blow a garden with my breath, br And in my hand a forest lies asleep.