There Is A Garden, Grey With Mists Of Autumntide; Under The Giant Boughs, Stretched Green On Every Side, Along The Lonely Paths, A Little Child Like Me, With Face, With Hands, Like Mine, Plays Ever Silently; On, On, Quite Silently, When I Am There Alone, Turns Not His Head; Lifts Not His Eyes; Heeds Not As He Plays On. After The Birds Are Flown From Singing In The Trees, When All Is Grey, All Silent, Voices, And Winds, And Bees; And I Am There Alone: Forlornly, Silently, Plays In The Evening Garden Myself With Me.