In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,
       At the sea-down’s edge between windward and lee,
Walled round with rocks as an inland island,
       The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses
       The steep square slope of the blossomless bed
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses
               Now lie dead.

• “A Forsaken Garden” (1876), Swinburne