Around her fountain which flows

With the voice of men in pain,

Are flowers that no man knows.

Their petals are fanged and red

With hideous streak and stain.

They sprang from the limbs of the dead.—

We shall not come here again.

Panthers rise from their lairs

In the forest which thickens below,

Along the garden stairs

The sluggish python lies;

The peacock’s walk, stately and slow

And they look at us with the eyes

Of men whom we knew long ago.