In green old gardens, hidden away From sight of revel and sound of strife, Where the bird may sing out his soul ere he die, Nor fears for the night, so he lives his day; Where the high red walls, which are growing gray With their lichen and moss embroideries, Seem sadly and sternly to shut out life, Because it is often as red as they; Where even the bee has time to glide (Gathering gayly his...