The Door Was Shut. I Looked Between Its Iron Bars; And Saw It Lie, My Garden, Mine, Beneath The Sky, Pied With All Flowers Bedewed And Green: From Bough To Bough The Song-Birds Crossed, From Flower To Flower The Moths And Bees; With All Its Nests And Stately Trees It Had Been Mine, And It Was Lost. A Shadowless Spirit Kept The Gate, Blank And Unchanging Like The Grave. I Peering Through Said: 'Let Me Have Some Buds To Cheer My Outcast State.' He Answered Not. 'Or Give Me, Then, But One Small Twig From Shrub Or Tree; And Bid My Home Remember Me Until I Come To It Again.' The Spirit Was Silent; But He Took Mortar And Stone To Build A Wall; He Left No Loophole Great Or Small Through Which My Straining Eyes Might Look: So Now I Sit Here Quite Alone Blinded With Tears; Nor Grieve For That, For Nought Is Left Worth Looking At Since My Delightful Land Is Gone. A Violet Bed Is Budding Near, Wherein A Lark Has Made Her Nest: And Good They Are, But Not The Best; And Dear They Are, But Not So Dear.