document.write("I walk down the garden paths,<br />And all the daffodils<br />Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.<br />I walk down the patterned garden-paths<br />In my stiff, brocaded gown.<br />With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,<br />I too am a rare<br />Pattern. As I wander down<br />The garden paths.<br />My dress is richly figured,<br />And the train<br />Makes a pink and silver stain<br />On the gravel, and the thrift<br />Of the borders.<br />Just a plate of current fashion,<br />Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.<br />Not a softness anywhere about me,<br />Only whalebone and brocade.<br />And I sink on a seat in the shade<br />Of a lime tree. For my passion<br />Wars against the stiff brocade.<br />The daffodils and squills<br />Flutter in the breeze<br />As they please.<br />And I weep;<br />For the lime-tree is in blossom<br />And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.<br />And the plashing of waterdrops<br />In the marble fountain<br />Comes down the garden-paths.<br />The dripping never stops.<br />Underneath my stiffened gown<br />Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,<br />A basin in the midst of hedges grown<br />So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,<br />But she guesses he is near,<br />And the sliding of the water<br />Seems the stroking of a dear<br />Hand upon her.<br />What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!<br />I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.<br />All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.<br />I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the<br />paths,<br />And he would stumble after,<br />Bewildered by my laughter.<br />I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles<br />on his shoes.<br />I would choose<br />To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,<br />A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,<br />Till he caught me in the shade,<br />And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,<br />Aching, melting, unafraid.<br />With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,<br />And the plopping of the waterdrops,<br />All about us in the open afternoon --<br />I am very like to swoon<br />With the weight of this brocade,<br />For the sun sifts through the shade.<br />Underneath the fallen blossom<br />In my bosom,<br />Is a letter I have hid.<br />It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.<br />\\\"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell<br />Died in action Thursday se\\\'nnight.\\\"<br />As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,<br />The letters squirmed like snakes.<br />\\\"Any answer, Madam,\\\" said my footman.<br />\\\"No,\\\" I told him.<br />\\\"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.<br />No, no answer.\\\"<br />And I walked into the garden,<br />Up and down the patterned paths,<br />In my stiff, correct brocade.<br />The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,<br />Each one.<br />I stood upright too,<br />Held rigid to the pattern<br />By the stiffness of my gown.<br />Up and down I walked,<br />Up and down.<br />In a month he would have been my husband.<br />In a month, here, underneath this lime,<br />We would have broke the pattern;<br />He for me, and I for him,<br />He as Colonel, I as Lady,<br />On this shady seat.<br />He had a whim<br />That sunlight carried blessing.<br />And I answered, \\\"It shall be as you have said.\\\"<br />Now he is dead.<br />In Summer and in Winter I shall walk<br />Up and down<br />The patterned garden-paths<br />In my stiff, brocaded gown.<br />The squills and daffodils<br />Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.<br />I shall go<br />Up and down,<br />In my gown.<br />Gorgeously arrayed,<br />Boned and stayed.<br />And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace<br />By each button, hook, and lace.<br />For the man who should loose me is dead,<br />Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,<br />In a pattern called a war.<br />Christ! What are patterns for?");