Today the garden has a Near East artistry, It is a mecca and a miracle of song. The bougainvillea wears a flowing new sarong, As bright as sequin-sands of Araby. The lake now has a sort of fabled charm; The grass is like a sketch of inlaid green, And blossoms, rich as Persian-dyed moreen, Unfold in colors lustrous and warm.

The age-old tints and timing do not fail. Clear as oases on a desert glyph, Nomadic birds now flirt with spring as if She were shy beauty glimpsed behind a veil.

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