For Maud

I think you’re in the garden, Maud,
Invited by the song
to wander, now the sun’s abroad
and know that you belong

With bat and black night flown away
the morning, soft, it came
He waited near the garden gate
to say your lovely name

He speaks of music and of dance;
of rose and lily fair
The larkspur listens in a trance
and asks "Oh, is she there?"

So linger in your garden, Maud
Wherever that may be
The poet isn’t overawed
to speak again of thee


(The 'Maud' poet and the poem)