UNIVERSITY OP 
 
 CAL^ORNIA 
 SAN DIEGO 
 
 presented to the 
 UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 SAN DIEGO 
 
 by 
 
 Miss Nancy Davidson
 

 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS
 
 In Praise of 
 Gardens 
 
 Compiled by 
 
 Temple Scott 
 
 New York 
 
 The Baker & Taylor Co. 
 1910
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY 
 THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY 
 
 Published, March, 19x0 
 
 THE TROW PRESS. NEW YORK
 
 TO 
 
 JOYCE 
 
 FROM HER ADMIRING 
 FATHER
 
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
 
 The editor takes pleasure in expressing his 
 grateful thanks to the publishers of Collier's 
 Weekly for courteous permission to include 
 the poem by Mr. Bliss Carman ; to Mr. 
 Bliss Carman for his courtesy ; to The John 
 Lane Co. for permission to reprint the poem 
 by Laurence Hope ; to Mr. Mitchell Ken- 
 nedy for permission to include the poem by 
 Mr. J. G. Neihardt, and to The Macmil- 
 lan Co. for permission to reprint the poem 
 by Mr. Robert Bridges.
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction 13 
 
 The Garden of Joy and Delight 21 
 
 The Garden of Love 63 
 
 The Garden of Home 105 
 
 Gardens Lost and Found . 151 
 
 The Garden of Peace 165 
 
 The Garden of God and the Soul . .181
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 " WITHOUT Sun I keep silence," says an old 
 sun-dial. "Though silent I speak," says another. 
 In these two mottoes lies the secret of the power 
 and the living charm of all gardens ; a secret, the 
 meaning of which is precipitated by the alchemy 
 of silence. For a garden is silent to the ear 
 only; to every other sense it is eloquent and ex- 
 quisitely musical. " Silence," says Carlyle, " is 
 the element in which all great things fashion 
 themselves together; that at length they may 
 emerge, full-formed and majestic, into the day- 
 light of life." It is in silence that a Garden 
 blossoms, without boasting of what it is going to 
 do. Once it has blossomed it speaks the univer- 
 sal language that all can understand. 
 
 A Garden is our happiest means for evoking 
 Nature's mystic as well as Nature's sensible 
 music. It is in itself the consummate eloquence 
 of the living silence of sunlight a silence in 
 which sunlight, with the aid of earth's elements, 
 expresses itself in the lovely colors of flowers. 
 What sound is to the ear that color may be said 
 
 [13]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 to be to the eye; and a garden, lovingly tended, 
 may become a very orchestra of colors which 
 varies its symphonic movements with the varying 
 seasons of the year. Flowers may be said to be 
 the words of the poetry of sunlight, and their 
 colors its music. They come and they go; but 
 in the interval a perfect expression has found 
 utterance, and the vision or song, call it what 
 you will, has spoken its appeal, has revealed its 
 message. 
 
 A garden is also eloquent to the ear, for it is 
 the home of song-birds. Here come and nest the 
 happy people of the sky, accompanying, with 
 their vocal music, the thoughts and emotions 
 which the garden, by its silence, breathes into us. 
 They pipe their lays to our mood either of morn- 
 ing exultation or of evening's meditation. The 
 mystery is that they come upon us not as in- 
 truders or disturbers in this retreat of quietude, 
 but rather as companions in labor or as friends 
 in sympathy. I know no more joyous encourager 
 to effort than the lark's song falling down from 
 a brilliant summer evening's sky; and I know of 
 no more deeply touching sense of kinship with 
 nature than that which comes over us with the 
 parting trills of the thrush on some golden, 
 
 [14]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 tremblingly, peaceful autumnal evening, when his 
 notes strike the stilled air at intervals as if they 
 were the call of some far-distant Angelus. 
 
 " Come unto me all ye that labor and are 
 heavy-laden," says the Garden, " and I will give 
 you rest." Not the rest of apathy, nor yet the 
 listlessness of ennui, but the recuperative rest, 
 the rest that we so need after the tiring turmoil 
 of the day's labor in the city's forges. And the 
 Garden will keep its word. Its silence and its 
 perfumes are as a healing balm. And yet it is 
 a busy silence, for it is the silence of creation, in 
 which life is growing into blossoming, and in 
 which spirit is transforming itself into splendid 
 matter. This wonderful operation, as it im- 
 presses itself on you, will touch you to responsive 
 impulses, and your rest will be energizing. This 
 is the true delight we experience from gardens, 
 that it makes us aware of our own creative pow- 
 ers and through this of our kinship with God. 
 
 We say that a garden is delightful, but are 
 rarely conscious of what we mean by the word. 
 If we analyze the sensation we shall find that 
 it is born of seeing the sheer beauty of life which 
 a garden is forever revealing. For here we be- 
 come somehow aware of the joy of mere living.
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 In the splendid modesty of the rose we are 
 touched with the sense of its utter contentment 
 to live and to die, if but it has fulfilled itself of 
 its color and perfume. In its fulfillment we see 
 its glory. We sense this dimly at first, but later, 
 when we have dwelt in gardens more frequently, 
 we are able to spell out the mystical language 
 the garden is speaking through its flowers and 
 trees and bushes and shrubs. " Would you know 
 what I am ? " asks the rose, in effect, and its life 
 of a day is the answer, and the only answer. It 
 has given itself in explaining itself. Is there any 
 other explanation possible? Not in the labora- 
 tories of men of science, nor yet in learned trea- 
 tises will you find the secret of the rose ; but you 
 will find it in a garden if you look for it with 
 the eyes of your soul. And in finding its secret, 
 you will have found your own secret also. That 
 is why a garden impresses us with a feeling of 
 sanctity; and that also is why a garden is delight- 
 ful. It helps you to find yourself. The mystery 
 of all things is the mystery of your self; and 
 through self-realization you come to a knowl- 
 edge of the beauty in all life, which is to blossom 
 with fragrance " in purple and red." For the 
 secret of life lies not so much in being as it does 
 
 [16.]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 in becoming; in growing by ever new expressions 
 of the many-sided meaning of being. And out 
 of the consciousness of growth is born your joy. 
 
 " In green old gardens, hidden away 
 
 From sight of revel, and sound of strife 
 Here have I leisure to breathe and move, 
 
 And to do my work in a nobler way; 
 
 To sing my songs, and to say my say; 
 
 To dream my dreams, and to love my love ; 
 
 To hold my faith and to live my life, 
 
 Making the most of its shadowy day." 
 
 This confession of the poet to the many appeals 
 to which a garden responds, to the many aspects 
 of our nature which it satisfies, explains what I 
 have tried to hint of its fulfilling influences. In 
 a garden we are free of the stress and sight of 
 men's sordid bickerings; we are released from 
 the prison of depressing and debilitating conven- 
 tions. In a Garden we are brought into primal 
 relations with primal things; we understand the 
 joy of simply living, like children do, and the 
 one response to that is song. The blitheness of 
 being is in our blood. Here we may dream our 
 dreams forgetful of our past failures, heartened 
 by the encouraging hope here given us of what we
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 may do. Responsive to the revealing mystery of 
 the place our hearts open to love, and we find 
 peace in an abiding faith. For we also are of 
 the company of life ; what the rose can do, surely 
 we may succeed in doing. Because of these 
 influences a garden is strength-giving, strength- 
 renewing. Life is, as it were, at its fountain- 
 head here. Nature and Nature's God are en- 
 gaged in the mystery of creation the ground is 
 holy ground the growing bush is the burning 
 bush out of which God's voice comes to bid us 
 take heart and be of good courage. And with 
 it all is here also ineffable peace; the peace of 
 gladness and the peace of rest. 
 
 " Here I untrammel, 
 
 Here I pluck loose the body's cerementing, 
 And break the tomb of life; here I shake off 
 The bur o' the world, man's congregation shun, 
 And to the antique order of the dead 
 I take tongueless vows ; my cell is set 
 Here in thy bosom; my little trouble is ended 
 In a little peace." 
 
 Here also, however, we may take the speech- 
 ful vows, not to the antique order of the dead, 
 but to the antique order of the living. To gar- 
 
 [18]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 dens gravitate as by a natural impulse all true 
 lovers. Beneath the canopy of their leafy bow- 
 ers vows have been exchanged and troths plighted 
 which have meant all that life holds for mortals. 
 The Garden of Peace of the present is the Gar- 
 den of Love of the Past. Memory pauses to live 
 again its youth's happiness and its youth's pas- 
 sion ; and the landscape takes on anew the radi- 
 ance of the glory of bygone days. 
 
 And what more fitting place for children than 
 a garden ? The mere apposition of the words 
 " children " and " garden " satisfies our sense of 
 the fitness of things. Surely a garden was first 
 made for children for those pure in heart who 
 live in innocence, and for those chastened in 
 spirit whom experience has taught that the child- 
 like life is nearest to the true life. Thus from 
 the Garden of Peace through the Garden of 
 Love we plant our Garden of Joy. And in the 
 Garden of Joy men and women, like Enoch of 
 old, walk with God. 
 
 " A Garden is a lovesome thing, God wot ! 
 Rose plot, 
 Fringed pool, 
 Ferned grot 
 
 [19]
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 The veriest school 
 
 Of peace; and yet the fool 
 
 Contends that God is not 
 
 Not God ! in gardens ! when the eve is cool ? 
 
 Nay, but I have a sign; 
 
 'Tis very sure God walks in mine." 
 
 TEMPLE SCOTT. 
 
 [20]
 
 The Garden of Joy and Delight 
 
 OF SHADE AND SUNSHINE FOR EACH HOUR 
 
 SEE HERE A MEASURE MADE : 
 THEN WONDER NOT IF LIFE CONSIST 
 
 OF SUNSHINE AND OF SHADE.
 
 EST HORA 
 
 The Garden of Alcinoiis 
 
 (Translation from the Moorish by Walter Harris of Tangier) 
 
 Close to the gates a spacious garden lies, 
 From storms defended and inclement skies. 
 Four acres was the allotted space of ground, 
 Fenced with a green enclosure all around. 
 Tall thriving trees confessed the fruitful mould; 
 The reddening apple ripens here to gold. 
 Here the blue fig with luscious juice o'erflows, 
 With deeper red the full pomegranate glows; 
 The branch here bends beneath the mighty pear, 
 And verdant olives flourish round the year. 
 The balmy spirit of the western gale 
 Eternal breathes on fruits, untaught to fail; 
 Each dropping pear a following pear supplies, 
 On apples apples, figs on figs arise: 
 The same mild season gives the blooms to blow, 
 The buds to harden, and the fruits to grow. 
 
 Ordered vines in equal ranks appear, 
 With all the united labours of the year; 
 Some to unload the fertile branches run, 
 Some dry the blackening clusters in the sun; 
 
 [23]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Others to tread the liquid harvest join; 
 The groaning presses foam with floods of wine ; 
 Here are the vines in early flower descried, 
 Here grapes discoloured on the sunny side, 
 And there in autumn's richest purple dyed; 
 
 Beds of all various herbs, for ever green, 
 In beauteous order terminate the scene. 
 
 Two plenteous fountains the whole prospect 
 
 crowned : 
 
 This through the garden leads its stream around, 
 Visits each plant, and waters all the ground. 
 HOMER'S The Odyssy, Bk. VII. 
 
 So on a day, right in the morwe tyde, 
 
 Unto a gardyn that was ther bisyde, 
 
 In which that they hadde maid hir ordinaunce 
 
 Of vitaille, and of other purveiaunce, 
 
 They goon and playe here al the longe day; 
 
 And this was on the sixte morwe of May, 
 
 Which May hadde peynted with his softe shouers 
 
 This gardyn, full of leves and of floures, 
 
 And craft of mannes hand so curiously 
 
 Arrayed hadde this gardyn, trewely, 
 
 That never was ther gardyn of swich prys 
 
 [24]
 
 OUR TIMES AT HAND 
 
 But if it were the verray Paradys. 
 The odour of floures and the fresshe sighte 
 Wolde hav maked any herte lighte 
 That ever was born, but if to greet oiknesse, 
 Or to greet sorwe, helde it in distresse; 
 So full it was with beautee with pleasaunce. 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 
 
 The Canterbury Tales. 
 
 The Franklin s Tale. 
 
 The garden was by mesuryng 
 
 Right evene and square; in compassing 
 
 It was as long as it was large. 
 
 Of fruyt hadde every tree his charge, 
 
 But it were any hidous tree, 
 
 Of which ther were two or three. 
 
 There were, and that wote I full well, 
 
 Of pome garnettys a full gret dell, 
 
 That is a fruyt full well to lyke, 
 
 Namely to folk whanne they ben sike. 
 
 And trees there were of gret foisoun 
 
 That baren nottes in her sesoun 
 
 Such as men note mygges call, 
 
 That swote of savour ben withhalle; 
 
 [25]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 And almanderes gret plnete, 
 
 Fyges, and many a date tree, 
 
 These waxen, if men hadde nede, 
 
 Thorough the gardyn in length and brede, 
 
 There was eke waxyng many a spice, 
 
 As clowe-gelofre, and lycorice, 
 
 Gyngevre, and greyn de Paradys, 
 
 Canell, and setewale of prys, 
 
 And many a spice delitable, 
 
 To eten whan men rise fro table. 
 
 And many homly trees ther were 
 
 That peches, coynes, and apples beere, 
 
 Medlers, plowmes, perys chesteynis, 
 
 Chen's, of which many oon fayne is, 
 
 Notes, aleys, and bolas, 
 
 That for to seen it was solas; 
 
 With many high lorer and pyn 
 
 Was renged clene all that gardyn, 
 
 With cipres and with oliveris, 
 
 Of which that nygh no plente heere is. 
 
 There were elmes grete and stronge, 
 
 Maples, asshe, oke, aspe, planes longe, 
 
 Pyne ew, popler, and lyndes faire, 
 
 And othere trees full many a payre 
 
 What shude I tel you more of it? 
 
 There were so many trees yit, 
 
 [26],
 
 MEMOR ESTO BREVIS JEVI 
 
 That I shulde al encombred be 
 Or I had rekened every tree. 
 
 These trees were sette, that I devyse, 
 One from another in assyse; 
 Fyve fadome or sixe, I trowe so; 
 But they were hye and great also, 
 And for to kepe out wel the sonne 
 The croppes were so thicke y-ronne, 
 And every braunche in other knette, 
 And ful of grene leves sette, 
 That sonne myght there none discende, 
 Lest it the tender grasses shende. 
 There myght men does and roes y-se, 
 And of squyrels ful grat plente 
 From bowe to bowe alwaye lepynge; 
 Connes there were also plaiynge, 
 That comyn out of her clapers 
 Of sondrie colours and maners, 
 And maden many a tourneiyng 
 Upon the fresshe grasse spryngyng. 
 In places sawe I welles there 
 In whiche there no frogges were, 
 And fayre in shadowe was every welle. 
 But I ne can the nombre telle 
 Of stremys smal, that by devyse 
 
 [27]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Myrthe had done come through condyse; 
 Of vvhiche the water in rennyng 
 Gan make a noyse ful lykyng. 
 
 About the brinkes of these welles 
 And by the streme over al elles 
 Spronge up the grasse, as thicke y-set 
 And softe as any veluet, 
 On whiche men myght his lemmon lay 
 As on a fetherbed to pley, 
 For the erthe was ful softe and swete 
 Through moisture of the welle wete 
 Spronge up the sote grene gras 
 As fayre, as thicke, as myster was. 
 But moche amended it the place 
 That therthe was of suche a grace 
 That it of floures hath plente, 
 That bothe in somer and wynter be. 
 There sprange the vyolet al newe, 
 And fresshe pervynke riche of hewe, 
 And floures yelowe, white and rede, 
 Suche plente grewe there never in mede. 
 Ful gaye was al the grounde, and queynt 
 And poudred, as men had it peynt 
 With many a fresshe and sondrie floure, 
 That casten up ful good savour. 
 
 [28]
 
 MANEO NEMINI 
 
 I wol nat longe holde you in fable 
 Of al this garden delectable, 
 I mote my tonge stynted nede; 
 For I ne maye withouten drede 
 Naught tellen you the beaute al, 
 Ne halfe the bounte there with al. 
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 
 " The Romaunt of the Rose 
 
 A garden saw I ful of blosmy bowes 
 Up on a river in a grene mede, 
 There as ther swetnesse evermore y-now is; 
 With floures white, blewe, yelwe, and rede, 
 And colde welle-stremes, no-thyng dede, 
 That swommen ful of smale fisches lighte, 
 With fynnes rede and scales silver-brighte. 
 
 On every bough the briddes herde I synge, 
 
 With voys of aungel in her armonye; 
 
 Som besyede hem hir briddes forth to brynge. 
 
 The litel conyes to hir play gunne hye; 
 
 And further al aboute I gan aspye 
 
 The dredful roo, the buk, the hert and hynde, 
 
 Squerels and bestes smale of gentil kynde. 
 
 [29]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Of instruments of strenges in acord 
 Herde I so playe a ravisshyng swetnesse, 
 That God, that maker is of al and Lord, 
 Ne herde never beter, as I gesse; 
 Therewith a wynd, unnethe it myghte be lesse, 
 Made in the leves grene a noyse softe, 
 Acordant to the foules songe on-lofte. 
 
 The air of that place so attempre was 
 That never was grevaunce of heat ne cold; 
 There wex eek every holsom spice and gras; 
 Ne no man may ther wexe seek ne old, 
 Yit was ther joye more a thousand fold 
 Than man can telle ; ne never wolde it myghte, 
 But ay cleer day to any mannes sighte. 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 
 The Parlement of Foules. 
 
 Then did I see a pleasant Paradize, 
 Full of sweete floures and daintiest delights, 
 Such as on earth man could no more devize, 
 With pleasures choyce to feed his cheerefull 
 
 sp rights: 
 
 Not that, which Merlin by his magicke slights 
 Made for the gentle Squire, to entertaine 
 His fayre Belphoebe, could this gardine staine. 
 
 [30]
 
 NON TARDUM OPPERIOR 
 
 But O short pleasure, bought with lasting paine ! 
 Why will hereafter anie flesh delight 
 In earthlie blis, and joy in pleasures vaine, 
 Since that I saw this gardine wasted quite, 
 That where it was scarce seemed anie sight? 
 That I, which once that beautie did beholde, 
 Could not from teares my melting eyes with- 
 holde. 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 The Ruines of Time. 
 
 There the most daintie Paradise on ground 
 
 It selfe doth offer to his sober eye, 
 
 In which all pleasures plenteously abound, 
 
 And none does others happinesse enoye; 
 
 The painted flowres, the trees upshooting hye, 
 
 The dales for shade, the hilles for breathing 
 
 space, 
 
 The trembling groves, the christall running by, 
 And, that which all faire workes doth most 
 
 aggrace, 
 The arb which all that wrought appeared in 
 
 no place.
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 One would have thought (so cunningly the rude 
 And scorned partes were mingled with the 
 
 fine) 
 
 That nature had for wantonesse ensude 
 Art, and that Art at nature did repine; 
 So striving each th' other to undermine, 
 Each did the others worke more beautify; 
 So difFring both in willes agreed in fine: 
 So all agreed, through sweete diversity, 
 This Gardin to adorne with all variety. 
 
 And in the midst of all a fountaine stood, 
 Of richest substance that on earth might bee, 
 
 So pure and shiny th^t the silver flood 
 
 Through every channel running one might see ; 
 
 Most goodly it with curious ymageree 
 
 Was overwrought, and shapes of naked boyes, 
 
 Of which some seemed with lively jollitee 
 To fly about, playing their wanton toyes, 
 Whyles others did themselves embay in liquid 
 joyes. 
 
 And over all of purest gold was spread 
 A trayle of yvie in his native hew; 
 
 For the rich metall was so coloured, 
 
 That wight who did not well avis'd it vew 
 
 [32]
 
 OLD TIME IS STILL A-FLYING 
 
 Would surely deeme it to bee yvie trew: 
 Low his lascivious arms adown did creepe, 
 
 That themselves dipping in the silver dew, 
 Their fleecy flowres they fearefully did steepe, 
 Which drops of Christall seemed for wan- 
 tones to weep. 
 
 Infinit streames continually did well 
 
 Out of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see, 
 The which into an ample laver fell, 
 
 And shortly grew into so great quantitie, 
 That like a little lake it seemed to bee; 
 
 Whose depths exceeded not three cubits hight, 
 That through the waves one might the bottom 
 
 see, 
 
 All pav'd with Jaspar shining bright, 
 That seemed the fountaine in that sea did 
 sayle upright. 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 The Faerie Queene, Bk. II, Canto XII. 
 
 Where the bee sucks, there suck I: 
 In a crowslip's bell I lie; 
 There I couch when owls do cry. 
 On the bat's back I do fly 
 
 [33]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 After summer merrily: 
 
 Merrily, merrily, shall I live now 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
 
 And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
 His steeds to water at those springs 
 
 On chaliced flowers that lies; 
 And winking Mary-buds begin 
 
 To ope their golden eyes: 
 With everything that pretty bin, 
 
 My lady sweet; arise: 
 Arise, arise. 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Under the greenwood tree, 
 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 
 And tune his merry note 
 
 Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
 
 Here shall he see 
 
 No enemy 
 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 [34]
 
 CEST LHEURE DE BOIRE 
 
 Who doth ambition shun, 
 
 And loves to live i' the sun, 
 
 Seeking the food he eats, 
 
 And pleased with what he gets, 
 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
 
 Here shall he see 
 
 No enemy 
 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Thus, thus begin the yearly rites 
 Are due to Pan on these bright nights; 
 His morn now riseth and invites 
 To sports, to dances, and delights: 
 
 All envious and profane, away, 
 
 This is the shepherd's holyday. 
 
 Strew, strew the glad and smiling ground 
 With every flower, yet not confound; 
 The primrose drop, the spring's own spouse, 
 Bright day's eyes and the lips of cows; 
 The garden-star, the queen of May, 
 The rose, to crown the holyday. 
 
 Drop, drop, you violets; change your hues, 
 Now red, now pale, as lovers use; 
 
 [35]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 And in your death go out as well 
 As when you lived unto the smell: 
 That from your odour all may say, 
 This is the shepherd's holyday. 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 The Shepherd's Holyday. 
 
 My Garden sweet, enclosed with walles strong, 
 Embanked with branches to sytt and take my rest ; 
 The knots so enknotted, it cannot be exprest, 
 With arbors and ayles so pleasant and so dulce. 
 
 CAVENDISH. 
 
 If they to whom God gives fair gardens knew 
 The happy solace which sweet flowers bestow ; 
 
 Where pain depresses, and where friends are few, 
 To cheer the heart in weariness and woe. 
 
 ANON. 
 
 Me so oft my fancy drew 
 Here and there, that I ne'er knew 
 Where to place desire before 
 So that range it might no more; 
 
 [36]
 
 SIC LABITUR .ETAS 
 
 But as he that passeth by 
 Where, in all her jollity, 
 Flora's riches in a row 
 Do in seemly order grow, 
 And a thousand flowers stand 
 Bending as to kiss his hand ; 
 Out of which delightful store 
 One he may take and no more; 
 Long he pauseth doubting whether 
 Of those fair ones he should gather. 
 
 First the Primrose courts his eyes, 
 Then a Cowslip he espies; 
 Next the Pansy seems to woo him, 
 Then Carnations bow unto him; 
 Which whilst that enamoured swain 
 From the stock intends to strain 
 (As half- fearing to be seen), 
 Prettily her leaves between 
 Peeps the Violet, pale to see 
 That her virtues slighted be; 
 Which so much his liking wins, 
 That to seize her he begins. 
 
 Yet before he stooped so low 
 He his wanton eye did throw 
 
 [37]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS t!T 
 
 On a stem that grew more high, 
 And the Rose did there espy. 
 Who, beside her precious scent, 
 To procure his eyes content 
 Did display her goodly breast, 
 When he found at full exprest 
 All the good that Nature showers 
 On a thousand other flowers; 
 Wherewith he affected takes it, 
 His beloved flower he makes it, 
 And without desire of more 
 Walks through all he saw before. 
 
 So I wandering but erewhere 
 Through the garden of this Isle, 
 Saw rich beauties I confess, 
 And in number numberless. 
 Yea, so differing lovely too, 
 That I had a world to do, 
 Ere I would set up my rest, 
 Where to choose and choose the best. 
 GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 Flos Florum. 
 
 [38]
 
 SOL GLORIA MUNDI 
 
 I have a garden of my own, 
 But so with roses overgrown, 
 And lilies, that you would it guess 
 To be a little wilderness; 
 And all the spring-time of the year 
 It only loved to be there. 
 Among the beds of lilies I 
 Have sought it oft, where it should lie, 
 Yet could not, till itself would rise, 
 Find it, although before mine eyes; 
 For, in the flaxen lilies' shade, 
 It like a bank of lilies laid. 
 Upon the roses it would feed, 
 Until its lips e'en seem to bleed 
 And then to me 'twould boldly trip, 
 And print there roses on my lip, 
 But all its chief delight was still 
 On roses thus itself to fill, 
 And its pure virgin limbs to fold 
 In whitest sheets of lilies cold ; 
 Had it lived long, it would have been 
 Lilies without, roses within. 
 
 A. MARVELL. 
 
 The Nymph Complaining for the Death of 
 her Fawn. 
 
 [39]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 The Garden 
 
 Now vainly men themselves amaze, 
 To win the palm, the oak, or bays; 
 And their incessant labours see 
 Crowned from some single herb, or tree, 
 Whose short and narrow-verged shade 
 Does prudently their toils upbraid; 
 While all the flowers and trees do close, 
 To weave the garlands of repose ! 
 
 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
 And Innocence, thy sister dear? 
 Mistaken long, I sought you then 
 In busy companies of men. 
 Your sacred plants, if here below, 
 Only among the plants will grow; 
 Society is all but rude 
 To this delicious solitude. 
 
 No white nor red was ever seen 
 So amorous as this lovely green. 
 Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 
 Cut in these trees their mistress' name: 
 
 [40]
 
 LEARN TO VALUE YOUR TIME 
 
 Little, alas! they know or heed, 
 How far these beauties her's exceed! 
 Fair trees ! wheres'e'er your bark I wound, 
 No name shall but your own be found. 
 
 When we have run our passion's heat, 
 Love hither makes his best retreat. 
 The gods, that mortal beauty chase, 
 Still in a tree did end their race; 
 Apollo hunted Daphne so, 
 Only that she might laurel grow; 
 And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 
 Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 
 
 What wondrous life is this I lead ! 
 Ripe apples drop about my head; 
 The luscious clusters of the vine 
 Upon my mouth do crush their wine; 
 The nectarine, and curious peach, 
 Into my hands themselves do reach; 
 Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
 Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 
 
 Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, 
 Withdraws into its happiness; 
 
 [41]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 The mind, that ocean where each kind 
 Does straight its own resemblance find; 
 Yet it creates, transcending these, 
 Far other worlds, and other seas, 
 Annihilating all that's made 
 To a green thought in a green shade. 
 
 Here at the fountain's sliding foot, 
 Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 
 Casting the body's vest aside, 
 My soul into the boughs does slide: 
 There, like a bird, it sits and sings, 
 Then whets and combs its silver wings, 
 And, till prepared for longer flight, 
 Waves in its plumes the various light. 
 
 Such was that happy garden-state, 
 While man there walked without a mate; 
 After a place so pure and sweet, 
 What other help could yet be meet! 
 But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
 To wander solitary there: 
 Two paradises 'twere in one; 
 To live in paradise alone. 
 
 [42]
 
 I SHALL GO AND RETURN 
 
 How well the skilful gardener drew 
 Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new; 
 Where, from above, the milder sun 
 Does through a fragrant zodiac run, 
 And, as it works, the industrious bee 
 Computes its time as well as we! 
 How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
 Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers? 
 
 A. MARVELL. 
 
 Underneath this myrtle shade, 
 
 On flowery beds supinely laid, 
 
 With odorous oils my head o'erflowing, 
 
 And around it roses growing, 
 
 What should I do but drink away 
 
 The heat, and troubles of the day? 
 
 In this more than kingly state, 
 
 Love himself shall on me wait. 
 
 Fill to me, Love, nay fill it up; 
 
 And mingled cast into the cup, 
 
 Wit, and mirth, and noble fires, 
 
 Vigorous health, and gay desires. 
 
 The wheel of life no less will stay 
 In a smooth then rugged Way. 
 
 [43]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Since it equally does flee, 
 Let the motion pleasant be. 
 Why do precious ointments shower, 
 Nobler wines why do we pour, 
 Beauteous flowers why do we spread, 
 Upon the monuments of the dead? 
 Nothing they but dust can show, 
 Or bones that hasten to be so. 
 Crown me with roses whilst I live, 
 Now your wines -and ointments give. 
 After death I nothing crave, 
 Let me alive my pleasures have, 
 All are Stoics in the grave. 
 
 A. COWLEY. 
 
 The Wish 
 
 Well then; I now do plainly see, 
 This busy world and I shall ne'er agree; 
 The very honey of all earthly joy 
 
 Does of all meats the soonest cloy 
 
 And they, methinks, deserve my pity, 
 Who for it can endure the stings, 
 The crowd, and buz, and murmurings 
 
 Of this great hive, the city. 
 
 [44]
 
 LIVE TO-DAY 
 
 Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave 
 May I a small house and large garden have ! 
 And a few friends, and many books, both true, 
 
 Both wise, and both delightful too! 
 
 And since Love ne'er will from me flee, 
 A mistress moderately fair, 
 And good as guardian angels are, 
 
 Only belov'd, and loving me ! 
 
 Oh, fountains, when in you shall I 
 Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy? 
 Oh fields! Oh woods! when, when shall I be 
 made 
 
 The happy tenant of your shade? 
 
 Here's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood; 
 Where all the riches lie, that she 
 
 Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. 
 
 Pride and ambition here 
 Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear; 
 Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs 
 scatter, 
 
 And nought but Echo flatter. 
 
 The Gods, when they descended, hither 
 
 [45]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 From heaven did always choose their way; 
 And therefore we may boldly say, 
 That 'tis the way too thither. 
 
 How happy here should I, 
 And one dear She live, and embracing die! 
 She who is all the world, and can exclude 
 
 In deserts solitude. 
 
 I should have then this only fear, 
 Lest men, when they my pleasures see, 
 Should hither throng to live like me, 
 
 And so make a city here. 
 
 A. COWLEY. 
 
 The bee through flowery gardens goes 
 
 Buzzing to drink the morning's tears, 
 
 And from the early lily bears 
 
 A kiss commended to the rose, 
 
 And like a wary messenger, 
 
 Whispers some amorous story to his ear. 
 
 (XVIIth Century), 
 
 Have ye seen the morning sky, 
 When the dawn prevails on high, 
 
 [46]
 
 TIME PASSES FRIENDSHIP STAYS 
 
 When, anon, some purple ray 
 Gives a sample of the day, 
 When, anon, the lark, on wing, 
 Strives to soar, and strains to sing? 
 
 Have ye seen the ethereal blue 
 Gently shedding silvery dew, 
 Spangling o'er the silent green, 
 While the nightingale, unseen, 
 To the moon and stars, full bright, 
 Lonesome chants the hymn of night? 
 
 Have ye seen the broider'd May 
 All her scented bloom display, 
 Breezes opening, every hour, 
 This, and that, expecting flower, 
 While the mingling birds prolong, 
 From each bush the vernal song? 
 
 Have ye seen the damask rose 
 Her unsully'd blush disclose, 
 Or the lily's dewy bell, 
 In her glossy white, excell, 
 Or a garden vary'd o'er 
 With a thousand glories more? 
 
 [47]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 By the beauties these display, 
 Morning, evening, night, or day; 
 By the pleasures these excite, 
 Endless sources of delight! 
 Judge, by them, the joys I find. 
 
 A. PHILIPS. 
 The Happy Swain. 
 
 The midges dance aboon the burn; 
 
 The dews begin to fa'; 
 The pairtricks down the rushy holm 
 
 Set up their e'ening ca'. 
 Now loud and clear the blackbird's song 
 
 Rings through the briery shaw, 
 While flitting gay, the swallows play 
 
 Around the castle wa'. 
 
 Beneath the golden gloaming sky 
 
 The mavis mends her lay; 
 The redbreast pours his sweetest strains 
 
 To charm the ling'ring day; 
 
 [48]
 
 THY DAYS BE BRIGHT 
 
 While weary yeldrins seem to wail 
 
 Their little nestlings torn, 
 The merry wren, frae den to den, 
 
 Goes j inkling through the thorn. 
 
 The roses fauld their silken leaves, 
 
 The foxglove shuts its bell; 
 The honeysuckle and the birk 
 
 Spread fragrance through the dell. 
 Let others crowd the giddy court 
 
 Of mirth and revelry 
 The simple joys that Nature yields 
 
 Are dearer far to me. 
 
 R. TANNAHILL. 
 The Midges Dance Aboon the Burn. 
 
 The groves of Blarney 
 They look so charming, 
 Down by the purling 
 
 Of sweet silent streams, 
 Being banked with posies, 
 That spontaneous grows there, 
 Planted in order 
 
 By the sweet rock close. 
 
 [49l
 
 U IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 'Tis there's the daisy 
 And the sweet carnation, 
 The blooming pink, 
 
 And the rose so fair; 
 The daffodowndilly 
 Likewise the lily, 
 All flowers that scent 
 
 The sweet fragrant air. 
 
 There's gravel walks there, 
 For speculation 
 And conversation 
 
 In sweet solitude. 
 'Tis there the lover 
 May hear the dove, or 
 The gentle plover 
 
 In the afternoon ; 
 And if a lady 
 Would be so engaging 
 As to walk alone in 
 
 Those shady bowers, 
 'Tis there the courtier 
 He may transport her 
 Into some fort, or 
 
 All under ground. 
 
 
 
 [50]
 
 A LA BONNE HEURE 
 
 There's statues gracing 
 This noble place in 
 All heathen gods 
 
 And nymphs so fair; 
 Bold Neptune, Plutarch, 
 And Nicodemus, 
 All standing naked. 
 
 In the open air! 
 So now to finish 
 This brave narration, 
 Which my poor geni' 
 
 Could not entwine ; 
 But were I Homer, 
 Or Nebuchadnezzar, 
 'Tis in every feature 
 
 I would make it shine. 
 
 R. A. MlLLIKIN. 
 
 The Groves of Blarney. 
 
 With deep devotion, Nature, did I feel, 
 In that enormous City's turbulent world 
 Of men and things, what benefit I owed 
 To thee, and those domains of rural peace, 
 Where to the sense of beauty first my heart 
 
 [51]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Was opened; tract more exquisitely fair 
 Than that famed paradise of ten thousand trees, 
 Or Gehol's matchless gardens, for delight 
 Of the Tartarian dynasty compared 
 (Beyond that mighty wall, not fabulous, 
 China's stupendous mound) by patient toil 
 Of myriads and boon nature's lavish help; 
 There, in a clime from widest empire chosen, 
 Fulfilling (could enchantment have done more?) 
 A sumptuous dream of flowery lawns, with domes 
 Of pleasure sprinkled over, shady dells 
 For eastern monasteries, sunny mounts 
 With temples erected, bridges, gondolas, 
 Rocks, dens, and groves of foliage taught to melt 
 Into each other their obsequious hues, 
 Vanished and vanishing in subtle chase, 
 Too fine to be pursued ; or standing forth 
 In no discordant opposition, strong 
 And gorgeous as the colours side by side 
 Bedded among rich plumes of tropic birds; 
 And mountains over all, embracing all; 
 And all the landscape, endlessly enriched 
 With waters running, falling, or asleep. 
 WILLIAM WADSWORTH. 
 The Prelude, Book VIII, Retrospect. 
 
 [52]
 
 tf AGE QUOD AGIS 
 
 In a Persian Garden 
 
 A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 
 
 A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread and Thou 
 
 Beside me singing in the Wilderness 
 O, Wilderness were Paradise enow! 
 
 Some for the Glories of This World; and some 
 Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come ; 
 
 Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, 
 Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum! 
 
 Look to the blowing Rose about us " Lo, 
 Laughing," she says, " into the world I blow, 
 
 At once the silken tassel of my Purse 
 Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw." 
 
 And those who husbanded the golden grain 
 And those who flung it to the winds like Rain 
 
 Alike of no such aureate Earth are turned 
 As, buried once, men want dug up again. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai 
 
 Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, 
 
 How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp 
 Abode his destined Hour, and went his way. 
 
 [53]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 They say the Lion and the Lizard keep 
 
 The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank 
 
 deep: 
 
 And Bahram, that great Hunter the wild Ass 
 Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his sleep. 
 
 I sometimes think that never blows so red 
 The rose as when some buried Caesar bled; 
 That every Hyacinth the Garden wears 
 Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely head. 
 
 And this reviving Herb whose tender green 
 Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean 
 Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows 
 From what once lovely lip it springs unseen! 
 EDWARD FITZ GERALD. 
 Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. 
 
 A Song of Phaeacia 
 
 The Languid sunset, mother of roses, 
 Lingers, a light on the magic seas, 
 
 The wide fire flames, as a flower encloses, 
 Heavy with odour, and loose to the breeze. 
 
 [54]
 
 TO-DAY is YESTERDAYS PUPIL 
 
 The red rose clouds, without law or leader, 
 Gather and float in the airy plain; 
 
 The nightingale sings to the dewy cedar, 
 The cedar scatters his scent to the main. 
 
 The strange flowers' perfume turns to singing, 
 
 Heard afar over moonlit seas; 
 The Siren's song, grown faint in winging, 
 
 Falls in scent on the cedar trees. 
 
 As waifs blown out of the sunset, flying, 
 Purple, and rosy, and grey, the birds 
 
 Brighten the air with their wings; their crying 
 Wakens a moment the weary herds. 
 
 Butterflies flit from the fairy garden, 
 Living blossoms of flying flowers; 
 
 Never the nights with winter harden, 
 Nor moons wax keen in this land of ours. 
 
 Great fruits, fragrant, green and golden, 
 Gleam in the green, and droop and fall; 
 
 Blossom, and bud, and flowers unfolden, 
 Swing, and cling to the garden wall. 
 
 [55]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Deep in the woods as twilight darkens, 
 Glades are red with the scented fire; 
 
 Far in the dells the white maid hearkens, 
 Song and sigh of the heart's desire. 
 
 Ah, and as moonlight fades in morning, 
 Maiden's song in the matin grey, 
 
 Faint as the first bird's note, a warning, 
 Wakes and wails to the new-born day. 
 
 The waking, song and the dying measure 
 
 Meet, and the waxing and waning light 
 Meet, and faint with the hours of pleasure, 
 The rose of the sea and sky is white. 
 ANDREW LANG. 
 Ballads and Lyrics of Old France. 
 
 For lo, a garden-place I found, 
 
 Well filled of leaves, and stilled of sound, 
 
 Well flowered, with red fruit marvellous; 
 And 'twixt the shining trunks would flit 
 Tall knights and silken maids, or sit 
 
 With faces bent and amorous; 
 
 [56]
 
 THINK AND THANK 
 
 There, in the heart thereof, and crowned 
 With woodbine and amaracus, 
 My Love, I found. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 " This is well done," she said, " in thee, 
 O Love, that thou art come to me, 
 
 To this green garden glorious; 
 Now truly shall our life be sped 
 In joyance and all goodlihead, 
 
 For here all things are fair to us, 
 And none with burden is oppressed, 
 
 And none is poor or piteous, 
 For here is Rest: 
 
 " No formless Future blurs the sky ; 
 Men mourn not here, with dull dead eye, 
 
 By shrouded shapes of Yesterday; 
 Betwixt the Coming and the Past. 
 The flawless life hangs fixen fast 
 
 In one unwearying To-Day, 
 That darkens not; for Sin is striven, 
 Death from the doors is thrust away, 
 And here is Heaven." 
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 A Song of Angiola in Heaven. 
 
 [57]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 A Garden in Spring 
 
 How the lilacs, the lilacs are glowing and 
 
 blowing ! 
 And white through the delicate verdure of 
 
 May 
 The blossoming boughs of the hawthorn are 
 
 showing, 
 
 Like beautiful brides in their bridal array; 
 With cobwebs for laces, and dewdrops for 
 
 pearls, 
 Fine as a queen's dowry for workaday girls. 
 
 And the lilacs, the lilacs are blowing and 
 
 glowing ! 
 They pluck them by handfulls and pile in a 
 
 mass 
 And the sap of the Springtide is rising and 
 
 flowing 
 Through the veins of the greenwood, the 
 
 blades of the grass: 
 
 Up, up, to the last leaf a dance on the tree, 
 It leaps like a fountain abundant and free. 
 
 [58]
 
 NONEO DUM MOVED 
 
 The blackbirds are building their nests in the 
 
 bushes, 
 
 And whistle at work, as the work people do ; 
 The trees swing their censors, the wind comes in 
 
 gushes 
 
 Of delicate scent mixed of honey and dew. 
 Now loud and now low through the gar- 
 
 rulous trees 
 
 A burst of gay music is blown with the 
 breeze. 
 
 Oh, the lilacs, the lilacs are glowing and blowing ! 
 
 They pluck them by bushels as blithely they go 
 
 Through the green, scented dusk where the haw- 
 
 thorn is showing 
 
 A luminous whiteness of blossoming snow. 
 And the Sun ere he goes gives the Moon 
 
 half his light, 
 
 As a Lamp to lead Love on the bridal 
 Night. MATHILDE BLIND. 
 
 A Bridal in the Bois de Boulogne. 
 
 The wassailous heart of the Year is thine! 
 His Bacchic ringers disentwine 
 
 His coronal 
 
 At thy festival; 
 
 [59]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 His revelling fingers disentwine 
 Leaf, flower, and all, 
 And let them fall 
 
 Blossom and all in thy wavering wine. 
 The Summer looks out from her brazen tower, 
 
 Through the flashing bars of July, 
 Waiting thy ripened golden shower; 
 
 Whereof there cometh, with sandals fleet, 
 
 The North-west flying viewlessly, 
 With a sword to sheer, and untameable feet, 
 And the Gorgon-head of the Winter shown 
 To stiffen the gazing earth as stone. 
 * # * * * 
 
 Still, mighty Season, do I see't, 
 Thy sway is still majestical 
 Thou hold'st of God by title sure, 
 Thine indefeasible investiture, 
 
 And that right round thy locks are native to; 
 The heavens upon thy brow imperial, 
 
 This huge terrene thy ball, 
 And o'er thy shoulders thrown wide air's de- 
 
 pending pall 
 What if thine earth be blear and bleak of hue? 
 
 Still, still the skies are sweet! 
 Still, Season, still thou hast thy triumphs 
 there ! 
 
 [60]
 
 tl NE QUID PEREAT U 
 
 How have I, unaware, 
 Forgetful of my strain inaugural, 
 
 Cleft the great rondure of thy reign complete, 
 Yielding the half, who hast indeed the all? 
 I will not think thy sovereignty begun 
 
 But with the shepherd Sun 
 That washes in the sea the stars' gold fleeces; 
 
 Or that with Day it ceases, 
 Who sets his burning lips to the salt brine, 
 
 And purples it to wine ; 
 While I behold how ermined Artemis 
 Ordained weed must wear, 
 And toil thy business; 
 WTio witness am of her, 
 Her too in autumn turned a vintager; 
 And, laden with its lamped clusters bright, 
 The fiery-fruited vineyard of this night. 
 FRANCIS THOMPSON. 
 A Corymbus for Autumn. 
 
 I have a secret garden 
 Where sacred lilies lift 
 
 White faces kind with pardon 
 To hear my shrift. 
 
 [61]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 And all blood-riot falters 
 
 Before those faces there; 
 Bowed down at quiet altars, 
 
 Mine hours are monks at prayer. 
 
 Oh through my spirit kneeling, 
 The silence thrills and sings 
 
 The cosmic brother feeling 
 Of growing, hopeful things; 
 
 Old soothing Earth a mother, 
 A sire the stooping Blue; 
 
 The Sun a mighty Brother 
 And God is in the dew. 
 
 Oh, Garden hushed and splendid 
 
 With lily, star and tree! 
 There all wild dreams are ended 
 Oh, come with me! 
 
 JOHN G. NEIHARDT. 
 
 The Fugitive Glory. 
 
 [62]
 
 The Garden of Love 
 
 HOURS FLY, 
 FLOWERS DIE, 
 NEW DAYS, 
 NEW WAYS, 
 PASS BY ; 
 LOVE STAYS.
 
 SO FLIES LIFE AWAY 
 
 foici Notre Heure 
 
 She led me, hand in hand, and we went into her 
 garden to converse together. 
 
 There she made me taste of excellent honey. 
 
 The rushes of the garden were verdant, and all 
 its bushes flourishing. 
 
 There were currant trees and cherries redder 
 than rubies. 
 
 The ripe peaches (the Persian fruit) of the gar- 
 den resembled bronze, and the groves had 
 the lustre of the stone nashem (green 
 felspar). 
 
 The menni unshelled like cocoanuts they brought 
 us; its shade was fresh and airy, and soft 
 for the repose of love. 
 
 " Come to me," she called unto me, " and enjoy 
 thyself a day . . . the garden is to-day in 
 its glory: there is a terrace and a parlour." 
 
 (An Egyptian Poem. Written about 1 300 B.C. Taken from " The 
 Tale of the Garden of Flowers." Translated by M. Francois Chabas.) 
 
 (Records of the Poret, Egyptian Texts). 
 [6 5 ]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 A Grecian Garden 
 
 (Translated by Andrew Lang.) 
 
 Then he bent his way to the left, and took the 
 road to Pyxa, while I and Eucritus, with beau- 
 tiful Amyntas, turned to the farm of Phrasi- 
 demus. There we reclined on deep beds of 
 fragrant lentisk, lowly strewn, and rejoicing we 
 lay in new stript leaves of the vine. And high 
 above our heads waved many a poplar, many an 
 elm tree, while close at hand the sacred water 
 from the nymphs' own cave welled forth with 
 murmurs musical. On shadowy boughs the 
 burnt cicadas kept their chattering toil, far off 
 the little owl cried in the thick thorn brake, the 
 larks and finches were singing, the ring-dove 
 moaned, the yellow bees were flitting about the 
 springs. All breathed the scent of the opulent 
 summer, of the season of fruits; pears at our 
 feet and apples by our sides were rolling plenti- 
 ful, the tender branches, with wild plums laden, 
 were earthward bowed. 
 
 Theocritus, Idyl XII. 
 
 [66]
 
 U" ICH DIEN tT 
 
 Amonges othere of his honeste thynges 
 He made a gardyn walled al with stoon. 
 So fair a gardyn woot I nowker noon, 
 For out of doute, I verraily suppose 
 That he wroot the romance of the Rose 
 Ne koude of it the beautee wel devyse 
 Ne Priapus me myghte nat suffise, 
 Though he be god of gardyns, for to telle 
 The beautee of the gardyn, and the welle, 
 That stood under a laurer, alwey grene. 
 Ful of te tyme he Pluto, and his queene 
 Proserpina, and al hire fairye, 
 Disporten hem and maken melodye 
 About that welle, and dannced as men tolde. 
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 
 Canterbury Tales, The Merchant's Tale. 
 
 The Garden of Proserpina 
 
 The Gardin of Proserpina this hight; 
 And in the midst thereof a silver seat, 
 With a thick Arber goodly over-dight, 
 In which she often used from open heat 
 Her selfe to shroud, and pleasures to entreat; 
 
 [67]
 
 U IN PRAISE OF GARDENS T$ 
 
 Next thereunto did grow a goodly tree, 
 With branches broad dispredd and body great, 
 Clothed with leaves, that none like wood mote 
 
 see, 
 And loaden all with fruit as thick as it might bee. 
 
 Their fruit were golden apples glistning bright, 
 That goodly was their glory to behold: 
 On earth like never grew, ne living wight 
 Like ever saw, but they from hence were sold; 
 For those which Hercules, with conquest bold 
 Got from great Atlas daughters, hence began, 
 And planted there did bring forth fruit of gold; 
 And those with which th' Eubcean young man 
 
 wan 
 Swift Atalanta, when through craft he her out 
 
 ran. 
 
 Here also sprong that goodly golden fruit, 
 With which Acontius got his lover trew, 
 Whom he had long time sought with fruitlesse 
 
 suit: 
 
 Here eke the famous golden Apple grew, 
 The which emongst the gods false Ate threw; 
 
 [68]
 
 MUNDI OCULOS 
 
 For which th' Idaean Ladies disagreed, 
 Till partial Paris dempt it Venus dew, 
 And had of her fayre Helen for his meed, 
 That many noble Greekes and Trojans made to 
 
 bleed. r 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 The Faerie Queene, Bk. II, Canto XII. 
 
 The Garden of Adonis 
 
 She brought her to her joyous Paradize, 
 Wher most she wonnes when she on earth does 
 
 dwell ; 
 
 So faire a place as Nature can devize: 
 Whether in Paphos, or Cytheron hill, 
 Or it in Gnidus bee, I wote not well; 
 But well I wote by triall, that this same 
 All other pleasaunt places doth excell, 
 And called is by her lost lover's name, 
 The Gardin of Adonis, far renowned by fame. 
 
 In that same Gardin all the goodly flowres, . 
 Wherewith dame Nature doth her beautify, 
 And decks the girlonds of her Paramoures, 
 Are fetcht: there is the first seminary 
 
 [69]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Of all things that are borne to live and dye, 
 According to their kynds. Long Xvorke it were 
 Here to account the endless progeny 
 Of all the weeds that bud and blossome there; 
 But so much as doth need must needs be counted 
 here. 
 
 It sited was in fruitfull soyle of old, 
 
 And girt in with two walls on either side; 
 
 The one of yron, the other of bright gold, 
 
 That none might thorough breake, nor overstride. 
 
 And double gates it had which opened wide, 
 
 By which both in and out men moten pas: 
 
 Th' one faire and fresh, the other old and dride, 
 
 Old Genius the porter of them was, 
 
 Old Genius, the which a double nature has. 
 
 He letteth in, he letteth out to wend 
 All that to come into the world desire: 
 A thousand thousand naked babes attend 
 About him day and night, which doe require 
 That he with fleshly weeds would them attire: 
 Such as him list, such as eternall fate 
 Ordained hath, he clothes with sinfull mire, 
 And sendeth forth to live in mortall state, 
 Till they agayn returne backe by the hinder gate. 
 
 [70]
 
 NOW OR WHEN 
 
 After that they againe returned beene, 
 They in that Gardin planted bee agayne, 
 And grow afresh, as they had never scene 
 Fleshly corruption, nor mortall payne, 
 Some thousand yeares so doen they there remayne, 
 And then of him are clad with other hew, 
 Or sent into the chaungefull world agayne, 
 Till thither they retourne where first they grew : 
 So, like a wheele, arownd they ronne from old 
 to new. 
 
 Ne needs there Gardiner to sett or sow, 
 To plant or prune; for of their owne accord 
 All things, as they created were, doe grow, 
 And yet remember well the mighty word 
 Which first was spoken by th' Almighty Lord, 
 That bad them to increase and multiply: 
 Ne doe they need with water of the ford, 
 Or of the clouds, to moysten their roots dry; 
 For in themselves eternall moisture they imply. 
 
 Infinite shapes of creatures there are bred, 
 And uncouth formes, which none yet ever knew: 
 And every sort is in a sondry bed 
 Sett by itselfe, and ranckt in comely rew; 
 Some fitt for reasonable sowles t' indew,
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Some made for beasts, some made for birds to 
 
 weare ; 
 
 And all the fruitfull spawne of fishes hew 
 In endlesse rancks along enraunged were, 
 That seemd the Ocean could not containe them 
 
 there. 
 
 Daily they grow, and daily forth are sent 
 
 Into the world, it to replenish more; 
 
 Yet is the stocke not lessened nor spent, 
 
 But still remaines in everlasting store, 
 
 As it at first created was of yore: 
 
 For in the wide wombe of the world there lyes, 
 
 In hatefull darknes and in deepe horrore, 
 
 An huge eternall chaos, which supplyes 
 
 The substaunces of nature's fruitfull progenyes. 
 
 All things from thence doe their first being fetch, 
 
 And borrow matter whereof they are made; 
 
 Which, whenas forme and feature it does ketch, 
 
 Becomes a body, and doth then invade 
 
 The state of life out of the griesly shade. 
 
 That substance is eterne, and bideth so ; 
 
 Ne when the life decayes and forme does fade, 
 
 Doth it consume and into nothing goe, 
 
 But chaunged is, and often altred to and froe. 
 
 [72]
 
 LOVE NEVER FAILETH 
 
 The substance is not chaunged nor altered, 
 
 But th' only forme and outward fashion; 
 
 For every substance is conditioned 
 
 To chaunge her hew, and sondry formes to don, 
 
 Meet for her temper and complexion: 
 
 For formes are variable and decay 
 
 By course of kinde and by occasion ; 
 
 And that faire flowre of beautie fades away, 
 
 As doth the lily fresh before the sunny ray. 
 
 Great enimy to it, and to all the rest 
 That in the Gardin of Adonis springs, 
 Is wicked Tyme: who with his scythe addrest 
 Does mow the flowring herbes and goodly things, 
 And all their glory to the ground downe flings, 
 Where they do wither, and are fowly mard : 
 He flyes about, and with his flaggy winges 
 Beates downe both leaves and buds without 
 
 regard, 
 Ne ever pitty may relent his malice hard. 
 
 Yet pitty often did the gods relent, 
 To see so faire thinges mard and spoiled quight; 
 And their great mother Venus did lament 
 The losse of her deare brood, her deare delight: 
 Her hart was pierst with pitty at the sight, 
 
 [73]
 
 tT IN PRAISE OF GARDENS U 
 
 When walking through the Gardin them she 
 
 saw, 
 
 Yet no'te she find redresse for such despight: 
 For all that lives is subject to that law; 
 All things decay in time, and to their end doe 
 
 draw. 
 
 But were it not that Time their troubler Is, 
 All that in this delightfull Gardin growes 
 Should happy bee, and have immortall blis: 
 For here all plenty and all pleasure flowes; 
 And sweete love gentle fitts emongst them 
 
 throwes, 
 
 Without fel rancor or fond gealosy. 
 Franckly each Paramor his leman knpwes, 
 Each bird his mate: ne any does envy 
 Their goodly meriment and gay felicity. 
 
 There is continuall Spring, and harvest there 
 
 Continuall, both meeting at one tyme; 
 
 For both the boughes doe laughing blossoms 
 
 beare, 
 
 And with fresh colours decke the wanton Pryme, 
 And eke attonce the heavy trees they clyme, 
 Which seeme to labour under their fruites lode: 
 
 [74]
 
 THROUGH SHADOW LOVE COMES 
 
 The whiles the joyous bi'rdes make their pastyme 
 Emongst the shady leaves, their sweet abode, 
 And their trew loves without suspicion tell 
 abrode. 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 The Faerie Queene, Book III, Canto VI. 
 
 Cherry Ripe 
 
 There is a garden in her face 
 Where roses and white lilies blow; 
 A heavenly paradise is that place 
 Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow. 
 
 There cherries grow that none may buy, 
 Till " Cherry-ripe " themselves do cry. 
 
 Those cherries fairly do enclose 
 
 Of orient pearl a double row, 
 
 Which when her lovely laughter shows, 
 
 They look like rose-buds filled with snow; 
 Yet them nor peer nor prince may buy, 
 Till " Cherry-ripe " themselves do cry. 
 
 [75]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Her eyes like angels watch them still; 
 Her brows like bended bows do stand, 
 Threatening with piercing frowns to kill 
 All that attempt with eye or hand 
 Those sacred cherries to come nigh 
 Till " Cherry-ripe " themselves do cry. 
 
 THOMAS CAMPION. 
 
 Love in the Garden 
 
 See'st not, my love, with what a grace 
 The Spring resembles thy sweet face? 
 Here let us sit, and in these bowers 
 Receive the odours of the flowers, 
 For Flora, by thy beauty woo'd conspires thy 
 good. 
 
 See how she sends her fragrant sweet, 
 
 And doth this homage to thy feet, 
 
 Bending so low her stooping head 
 
 To kiss the ground where thou dost tread, 
 
 And all her flowers proudly meet, to kiss thy feet. 
 
 [76]
 
 PRAISE A FAIR DAY AT NIGHT 
 
 Then let us walk, my dearest love, 
 And on this carpet strictly prove 
 Each other's vow; from thy request 
 No other love invades my breast. 
 For how can I contemn that fire which Gods 
 admire? 
 
 To crop that rose why dost thou seek, 
 When there's a purer in thy cheek? 
 Like coral held in thy fair hands, 
 Or blood and milk that mingled stands: 
 To whom the Powers and grace have given, a 
 type of Heaven. 
 
 Yon lily stooping t'wards this place, 
 Is a pale shadow for thy face, 
 Under which veil doth seem to rush 
 Modest Endymion's ruddy blush. 
 A blush, indeed, more pure and fair than lilies 
 are. 
 
 Glance on those flowers thy radiant eyes, 
 
 Through which clear beams they'll sympathize 
 
 Reflective love, to make them far 
 
 More glorious than th' Hesperian star, 
 
 For every swain amazed lies, and gazing dies. 
 
 [771
 
 U IN PRAISE OF GARDENS U 
 
 See how these silly flowers twine, 
 With sweet embracings, and combine, 
 Striving with curious looms to set 
 Their pale and red into a net, 
 To show how pure desire doth rest for ever 
 blest. 
 
 Why wilt thou then unconstant be? 
 T' infringe the laws of amity, 
 And so much disrespect my heart 
 To derogate from what thou art? 
 When in harmonious love there is Elysian bliss. 
 
 W. BOSWORTH. 
 
 Spring in a Garden 
 
 Though you be absent here, I needs must say 
 The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as 'gay, 
 
 As ever they were wont to be ; 
 
 Nay the birds' rural music too 
 
 Is as melodious and free, 
 
 As if they sung to pleasure you : 
 I saw a rose-bud ope this morn ; I'll swear 
 The blushing morning open'd not more fair. 
 
 [78]
 
 IT IS LATER THAN YOU THINK 
 
 How could it be so fair, and you away? 
 
 How could the trees be beauteous, flowers so gay? 
 Could they remember but last year, 
 How you did them, they you delight, 
 The sprouting leaves which saw you here, 
 And called their fellows to the sight, 
 
 Would, looking round for the same sight in vain, 
 
 Creep back into their silent barks again. 
 
 Where'er you walk'd trees were as reverend 
 made, 
 
 As when of old gods dwelt in every shade. 
 Is't possible they should not know, 
 What loss of honour they sustain, 
 That thus they smile and flourish now, 
 And still their former pride retain? 
 
 Dull creatures! 'tis not without cause that she, 
 
 Who fled the god of wit, was made a tree. 
 
 In ancient times sure they much wiser were, 
 When they rejoic'd the Thracian verse to hear; 
 In vain did nature bid them stay, 
 When Orpheus had his song begun, 
 They call'd their wondering roots away, 
 And bade them silent to him run. 
 
 [79]
 
 tT IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 How would those learned trees have followed 
 
 you? 
 You would have drawn them, and their poet too. 
 
 But who can blame them now? for, since you're 
 gone, 
 
 They're here the only fair, and shine alone. 
 You did their natural rights invade; 
 Where ever you did walk or sit, 
 The thickest boughs could make no shade, 
 Although the Sun had granted it: 
 
 The fairest flowers could please no more, near 
 you, 
 
 Than painted flowers, set next to them, could do. 
 
 When e'er then you come hither, that shall be 
 The time, which this to others is, to me. 
 
 The little joys which here are now, 
 
 The name of punishments do bear; 
 
 When by their sight they let us know 
 
 How we depriv'd of greater are. 
 'Tis you the best of seasons with you bring ; 
 This is for beasts, and that for men the Spring. 
 
 A. COWLEY. 
 
 [80]
 
 TU LOVE HAS EYES 
 
 His spacious garden made to yield to none, 
 Was compass'd round with walls of solid stone; 
 Priapus could not half describe the grace 
 (Tho' God of gardens) of this charming place: 
 A place to fire the rambling wits of France 
 In long descriptions, and exceed Romance ; 
 Enough to shame the gentlest bard that sings 
 Of painted meadows, and of purling springs, 
 Full in the centre of the flow'ry ground, 
 A crystal fountain spread its streams around, 
 The fruitful banks with verdant laurels crown'd : 
 About this spring (if ancient fame say true) 
 The dapper Elves their moonlight sports pursue: 
 Their pigmy king, and little fairy queen, 
 In circling dances gamboll'd on the green, 
 While tuneful sprites a merry concert made, 
 And airy music warbled thro' the glade. 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 January and May. 
 
 Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers 
 Plucked in the garden, all the summer through 
 And winter, and it seemed as if they grew 
 In this close room, nor missed the sun and 
 showers, 
 
 [81]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 So, in the like name of that love of ours, 
 Take back these thoughts which here unfolded 
 
 too, 
 
 And which on warm and cold days I withdrew 
 From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds 
 
 and bowers 
 
 Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue, 
 And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine, 
 Here's ivy! take them, as I used to do 
 Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall 
 
 not pine. 
 
 Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, 
 And tell thy soul their roots are left in mine. 
 
 E. B. BROWNING. 
 "Sonnets from the Portuguese" 
 
 The Flower's Name 
 
 Here's the garden she walked across, 
 Arm in arm, such a short while since: 
 
 Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss 
 Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! 
 
 [82]
 
 EITHER LEARN OR GO 
 
 She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, 
 As back with that murmur the wicket swung; 
 
 For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot 
 
 spurned, 
 To feed and forget it the leaves among. 
 
 II 
 
 Down this side of the gravel walk 
 
 She went while her robe's edge brushed the 
 
 box: 
 And here she paused in her gracious talk 
 
 To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. 
 Roses, ranged in valiant row, 
 
 I will never think that she passed you by! 
 She loves you noble roses, I know ; 
 
 But, yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie! 
 
 Ill 
 
 This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, 
 
 Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; 
 
 Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, 
 Its soft meandering Spanish name: 
 
 [83]
 
 tl IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 What a name! Was it love or praise? 
 
 Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? 
 I must learn Spanish, one of these days, 
 
 Only for that low sweet name's sake. 
 
 IV 
 
 Roses, if I live and do well, 
 
 I may bring her, one of these days, 
 To fix you fast with as fine a spell, 
 
 Fit you each with his Spanish phrase; 
 But do not detain me now ; for she lingers 
 
 There, like sunshine over the ground, 
 And ever I see her soft white fingers 
 
 Searching after the bud she found. 
 
 Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, 
 
 Stay as you are and be loved for ever! 
 Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not: 
 
 Mind, the sweet pink mouth opens never! 
 For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, 
 
 Twinkling the audacious leaves between, 
 Till round they turn and down they nestle 
 
 Is not the dear mark still to be seen? 
 
 [84]
 
 NEVER- TO BE -RECALLED 
 
 VI 
 
 Where I find her not, beauties vanish; 
 Whither I follow her, beauties flee; 
 Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 
 
 June's twice June since she breathed it with 
 
 me? 
 Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, 
 
 Treasure my lady's lightest footfall! 
 Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces 
 Roses, you are not so fair after all! 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 Garden Fancies. 
 
 Come into the Garden, Maud! 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 
 For the black bat, night, has flown, 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 I am here at the gate alone; 
 
 And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
 And the musk of the rose is blown. 
 
 [85]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 For a breeze of morning moves 
 And the planet of love is on high, 
 
 Beginning to faint in the light that she loves 
 On a bed of a daffodil sky, 
 
 To faint in the light of the sun she loves, 
 To faint in his light, and to die. 
 
 All night have the roses heard 
 
 The flute, violin, bassoon; 
 All night has the casement jessamine stirred 
 
 To the dancers dancing in tune; 
 Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 
 
 And a hush with the setting moon. 
 
 I said to the lily, " There is but one 
 
 With whom she has heart to be gay. 
 When will the dancers leave her alone? 
 
 She is weary of dance and play." 
 Now half to the setting moon are gone, 
 
 And half to the rising day; 
 Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
 
 The last wheel echoes away. 
 
 I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 
 In babble and revel and wine, 
 
 [86]
 
 I HEAR AND I WAIT 
 
 O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 
 
 For one that will never be thine? 
 But mine, but mine," so I swore to the rose, 
 
 " For ever and ever, mine." 
 
 And the Soul of the rose went into my blood, 
 
 As the music clash'd in the hall ; 
 And long by the garden lake I stood, 
 
 For I heard your rivulet fall 
 From the lake to the meadow and on to the 
 wood, 
 
 Our wood, that is dearer than all; 
 
 From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 
 That whenever a March-wind sighs 
 
 He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
 In violets blue as your eyes, 
 
 To the woody hollows in which we meet 
 And the valleys of Paradise. 
 
 The slender acacia would not shake 
 One long milk-bloom on the tree; 
 
 The white lake-blossom fell into the lake 
 As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 
 
 [8 7 ]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 But the rose was awake all night for your sake, 
 
 Knowing your promise to me ; 
 The lillies and roses were all awake, 
 
 They sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 
 
 Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
 Come hither, the dances are done, 
 
 In glare of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
 Queen lily and rose in one ; 
 
 Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, 
 To the flowers, and be their sun. 
 
 There has fallen a splendid tear 
 From the passion-flower at the gate, 
 
 She is coming, my dove, my dear; 
 
 She is coming, my life, my fate; 
 
 The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near " ; 
 And the white rose weeps, " She is late "; 
 
 The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear " ; 
 And the lily whispers, " I wait." 
 
 She is coming, my own, my sweet; 
 
 Were it ever so airy a tread, 
 My heart would hear her and beat, 
 
 Were it earth in an earthy bed; 
 
 [88]
 
 MY REDEEMER LIVETH 
 
 My dust would hear her and beat, 
 Had I lain for a century dead ; 
 Would start and tremble under her feet, 
 And blossom is purple and red. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Maud. 
 
 I know a little garden-close 
 Set thick with lily and red rose, 
 Where I would wander if I might. 
 From dewy dawn to dewy night, 
 And have one with me wandering. 
 
 And though within it no birds sing, 
 And though no pillar'd house is there, 
 And though the apple boughs are bare 
 Of fruit and blossom, would to God, 
 Her feet upon the green grass trod, 
 And I beheld them as before! 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 The Nymph's Song to Hylas. 
 
 [89]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 In a Bower 
 
 A path led hither from the house 
 
 Where I have left your doubt and pain, 
 
 fettered days of all my past; 
 
 1 lingered long, but came at last; 
 One lifting up of fragrant boughs, 
 
 Then love was here and broke my chain 
 
 With eager hands: the die is cast, 
 No path leads back again. 
 
 Henceforth, cold tyrant of my heart, 
 You rule no longer pulse or breath ; 
 Love, with rich words and kisses hot, 
 Has told me truth in this charmed spot; 
 And, though your hand this hour should part 
 The leaves, I have no thought, but saith 
 
 My life is Love's : I fear you not, 
 Now you are only Death. 
 
 And Death creeps up the garden walk; 
 But Love hastes, winning more and more: 
 My hands, my mouth, are his, my hair, 
 My breasts, as all my first thoughts were; 
 
 [90]
 
 LOVE NEVER FAILETH 
 
 Across the moonlit sward Death stalks; 
 But Love upon this flower-strewn floor 
 Hath made me wholly his ; ah, then ! 
 Death stands outside the door. 
 
 ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 
 
 In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, 
 
 And they tell in a garland their loves and 
 cares ; 
 
 Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers 
 On its leaves a mystic language bears. 
 
 The rose is a sign of joy and love, 
 
 Young, blushing love in its earliest dawn; 
 
 And the mildness that suits the gentle dove 
 From the myrtle's snowy flower is drawn. 
 
 Innocence shines in the lily's bell 
 
 Pure as the heart in its native heaven; 
 
 Fame's bright star and glory's swell 
 In the glossy leaf of the bay is given.
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 The silent, soft, and humble heart 
 
 In the violets hidden sweetness breathes; 
 
 And the tender soul that cannot part 
 A twine of evergreen fondly wreathes. 
 
 The cypress, that daily shades the grave, 
 In sorrow that mournes her bitter lot; 
 
 And faith, that a thousand ills can brave, 
 Speaks in thy blue leaves, forget-me-not. 
 
 Then gather a wreath from the garden flowers, 
 And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers. 
 
 PERCIVAL. 
 
 (Quoted from Helen Milman's " My Kalendar of Country Delights.") 
 
 A Garden Lyric 
 
 We have loiter'd and laugh'd in the flowery croft, 
 We have met under wintry skies; 
 
 Her voice is the dearest voice, and soft 
 Is the light in her gentle eyes; 
 
 [92]
 
 LOVE IS KIND ET 
 
 It is sweet in the silent woods, among 
 
 Gay crowds, or in any place 
 To hear voice, to gaze on her young 
 
 Confiding face. 
 
 For ever may roses divinely blow, 
 
 And wine-dark pansies charm 
 By the prim box path where I felt the glow 
 
 Of her dimpled, trusting arm, 
 And the sweep of her silk as she turn'd and 
 smiled 
 
 A smile as pure as her pearls; 
 The breeze was in love with the darling Child, 
 
 As it moved her curls. 
 
 She show'd me her ferns and woodbine-sprays, 
 
 Foxglove and jasmine stars, 
 A mist of blue in the beds, a blaze 
 
 Of red in the celadon jars: 
 And velvety bees in convolvulus bells, 
 
 And roses of bountiful June 
 Oh, who would think their summer spells 
 
 Could die so soon! 
 
 For a glad song came from the milking shed, 
 On a wind of the summer south, 
 
 [93]
 
 tT IN PRAISE OF GARDENS U 
 
 And the green was golden above her head, 
 And a sunbeam kiss'd her mouth; 
 
 Sweet were the lips where that sunbeam dwelt; 
 And the wings of Time were fleet 
 
 As I gazed; and neither spoke, for we felt 
 Life was so sweet! 
 
 And the odorous limes were dim above 
 
 As we leant on a drooping bough; 
 And the darkling air was a breath of love, 
 
 And a witching thrush sang " Now! " 
 For the sun dropt low, and the twilight grew 
 
 As we listen'd, and sigh'd, and leant; 
 That day was the sweetest day and we knew 
 
 What the sweetness meant. 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 London Lyrics. 
 
 Lovers in a Garden 
 
 A maiden, in a garden, dreaming 
 Of fairy-prince and halcyon days; 
 
 Her head, with sunny tresses gleaming, 
 Bow'd down beneath dim trellis'd ways; 
 
 [94]
 
 A GARDEN IS LOVE S HEART 
 
 A row of sunflowers by a paling, 
 
 A wicket left upon the latch, 
 A summer-house with woodbine trailing, 
 
 And ivy creeping o'er the thatch. 
 
 A footfall on the garden gravel, 
 
 A quick'ning heart, a whisper'd word; 
 
 A youth, burnt brown with foreign travel, 
 Come back to claim a hope deferred. 
 
 O happy, happy time of Love's beginning, 
 
 Ere ever we can guess that storms are near, 
 Sunlight dancing, buds unfolding, thrushes 
 
 singing, 
 
 Golden Summer of the soul and of the year! 
 
 VIOLET FANE. 
 
 One Flower 
 
 When autumn suns are soft, and sea winds moan, 
 And golden fruits make sweet the golden air, 
 In gardens where the apple-blossoms were, 
 
 In these old springs before I walked alone; 
 
 I pass among the pathways overgrown, 
 
 [95]
 
 tT IN PRAISE OF GARDENS U 
 
 Of all the former flowers that kissed your feet 
 
 Remains a poppy, pallid from the heat, 
 A wild poppy that the wild winds have sown. 
 Alas! the rose forgets your hands of rose; 
 
 The lilies slumber in the lily bed; 
 'Tis only poppies in the dreamy close, 
 
 The changeless, windless garden of the dead, 
 You tend, with buds soft as your kiss that lies 
 In ever happy dreams, upon mine eyes. 
 
 ANDREW LANG. 
 Ballads and Lyrics of Old France. 
 
 My Heart Shall be Thy Garden 
 
 My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own, 
 Into thy garden; thine be happy hours 
 Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers, 
 
 From root to crowning petal, thine alone. 
 
 Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown 
 Up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers. 
 But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build 
 
 bowers 
 
 To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have 
 flown. 
 
 [96]
 
 WITHOUT SUN I KEEP SILENCE 
 
 For as these come and go, and quit our pine 
 To follow the sweet season, or, new-comers, 
 Sing one song only from our alder-trees. 
 
 My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes 
 
 hold mine, 
 
 Flit to the silent world and other summers, 
 With wings that dip beyond the silver seas. 
 ALICE MEYNELL. 
 
 The Garden of Shadow 
 
 " Love heeds no more the sighing of the wind 
 Against the perfect flowers: thy garden's close 
 Is grown a wilderness, where none shall find 
 One strayed, last petal of one last year's rose. 
 
 " O bright, bright hair ! O mouth like a ripe 
 
 fruit ! 
 
 Can famine be so nigh to harvesting? 
 Love, that was songful, with a broken lute 
 In grass of graveyards goeth murmuring. 
 
 [97]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 " Let the wind blow against the perfect flowers, 
 And all thy garden change and glow with spring: 
 Love is grown blind with no more count of hours 
 Nor part in seed-time nor in harvesting." 
 
 ERNEST DOWSON. 
 
 In your mother's apple-orchard, 
 
 Just a year ago, last spring: 
 Do you remember, Yvonne! 
 
 The dear trees lavishing 
 Rain of their starry blossoms 
 
 To make you a coronet? 
 Do you remember, Yvonne? 
 
 As I remember yet. 
 
 In your mother's apple-orchard, 
 
 When the world was left behind: 
 You were so shy, so shy, Yvonne! 
 
 But your eyes were calm and kind. 
 We spoke of the apple harvest, 
 
 When the cider press is set, 
 And such-like trifles, Yvonne! 
 
 That doubtless you forget. 
 
 [98]
 
 TIME WAS MADE FOR SLAVES 
 
 In the still soft Breton twilight, 
 
 We were silent; words were few, 
 Till your mother came out chiding, 
 
 For the grass was bright with dew 
 But I know your heart was beating, 
 
 Like a fluttered, frightened dove. 
 Do you ever remember, Yvonne? 
 
 That first faint flush of love? 
 
 In the fulness of midsummer, 
 
 When the apple-bloom was shed, 
 Oh, brave was your surrender, 
 
 Though shy the words you said. 
 I am glad, so glad, Yvonne! 
 
 To have led you home at last; 
 Do you ever remember, Yvonne! 
 
 How swiftly the days passed? 
 
 In your mother's apple-orchard 
 
 It is grown too dark to stray, 
 There is none to chide you, Yvonne! 
 
 You are over far away. 
 There is dew on your grave-grass, Yvonne! 
 
 But your feet it shall not wet: 
 
 [99]
 
 HJ IN PRAISE OF GARDENS U 
 
 No, you never remember, Yvonne ! 
 And I shall soon forget. 
 
 ERNEST DOWSON. 
 Yvonne of Britanny. 
 
 Dost thou remember how one morn of Spring 
 A bunch of yellow roses sweet and rare, 
 Gathered while yet the garden walks were 
 bare, 
 
 Into thy presence ... I did bring?. . . 
 Whispering, " Whatsoever may befall 
 
 Within love's garden-lands of sun and showers, 
 This token shall remain with thee through all 
 
 The silence of thy sad and lonely hours! 
 
 WILLIAM AKERMAN. 
 
 The Parting Hour 
 
 Not yet, dear love, not yet : the sun is high ; 
 
 You said last night, " At sunset I will go." 
 Come to the garden, where when blossoms die 
 
 No word is spoken ; it is better so : 
 Ah! bitter word "Farewell." 
 
 [100]
 
 CHERISH LOVES TIME 
 
 Hark! how the birds sing sunny songs of spring! 
 Soon they will build, and work will silence 
 
 them; 
 
 So we grow less light-hearted as years bring 
 Life's grave responsibilities and then 
 The bitter word " Farewell." 
 
 The violets fret to fragrance 'neath your feet, 
 Heaven's gold sunlight dreams aslant your 
 
 hair: 
 
 No flower for me ! your mouth is far more sweet. 
 O, let my lips forget, while lingering there, 
 Love's bitter word " Farewell." 
 
 Sunset already! have we sat so long? 
 
 The parting hour, and so much left unsaid! 
 The garden has grown silent void of song, 
 Our sorrow shakes us with a sudden dread! 
 Ah ! bitter word " Farewell." 
 
 OLIVE CUSTANCE. 
 
 [101]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 The Orange Garden 
 
 (Translation from the Moorish by Walter Harris of Tangier) 
 I 
 
 I cannot find this Orange Garden fair: 
 The dim dishevelled grass is wet and chill. 
 
 Desolate, croaking frogs distress the air, 
 
 But birds, if ever birds come here, are still. 
 
 Even the oranges have lost their light 
 
 And droop forlorn beneath the sombre green. 
 
 A water-wheel creaks somewhere out of sight, 
 Grey mist and shadow veil the lonely scene. 
 
 And when I think I hear your coming feet 
 Rustle across the grass and violet leaves, 
 
 'Tis but the gardener, who fears to meet, 
 
 Among the gloom some fruit-attracted thieves. 
 
 II 
 
 Fair, ah, fair, is the Sunny Orange Garden, 
 Secret and shady, scented and green. 
 
 Gold, red gold, are the oranges in clusters, 
 Fragrant and bright in their ripened sheen. 
 
 [102]
 
 LOVE ME LITTLE LOVE ME LONG 
 
 Even the croaking of the frogs is music, 
 Even the creak of the wheel is song, 
 
 Straight to my naked heart the wild birds' warble 
 Strikes in cadence, tremulously strong. 
 
 Now the old gardener passes discreetly, 
 
 Never upraising his guarded eyes, 
 For here, in the violets, at rest, beside me, 
 Sweet and consenting, my Loved One lies! 
 LAURENCE HOPE. 
 Stars of the Desert. 
 
 [103]
 
 SHINING SPOT FOR - EVER SHINING 
 
 BRIGHTEST HOURS- HAVE NO ABIDING. 
 
 USE THY GOLDEN MOMENTS WELL. 
 
 LIFE IS WASTING 
 
 DEATH IS - HASTING 
 
 DEATH CONSIGNS TO HEAVEN OR HELL.
 
 OFPOSTO DI ME PENSI DI TE 
 
 Whilom ther was in a smal village, 
 
 As myn autor make the rehersayle, 
 
 A chorle, whiche hadde lust and a grete corage 
 
 Within hymself, be diligent travayle 
 
 To array his gardeyn with notable apparayle, 
 
 Of lengthe and brede yelicke square and longe, 
 
 Hegged and dyked to make it sure and stronge. 
 
 Alle the aleis were made playne with sond, 
 The benches turned with newe turves grene, 
 Sote herbers, with condite at the honde, 
 That welled up agayne the sonne schene, 
 Lyke silver stremes as any cristalle clene 
 The burbly waives is up boyling, 
 Round as byralle ther beamys out shynge. 
 
 JOHN LYDGATE. 
 The Chorl and the Birde. 
 
 To the gay gardins his unstaid desire 
 Him wholly carried, to refresh his sprights: 
 There lavish Nature, in her best attire, 
 Powers forth sweete odors and alluring sights; 
 
 [107]
 
 IN PRAISE -OF GARDENS 
 
 And Arte, with her contending, doth aspire 
 T' excell the naturall with made delights; 
 And all, that faire or pleasant may be found, 
 In riotous excesse doth there abound. 
 
 And then againe he turneth to his play, 
 To spoyle the pleasures of that Paradise; 
 The wholesome Saulge, and Lavender still gray, 
 Ranke-smelling Rue, and Cummin good for eyes, 
 The Roses varying in the pride of May, 
 Sharpe Isope, good for greene wounds remedies, 
 Faire Marigoldes, and Bees-alluring thime, 
 Sweet Marjoram, and Daysies decking prime: 
 
 Coole Violets, and Orpine growing still, 
 Embathed Balme, and cheerfull Gallingale, 
 Fresh Costmarie, and breathfull Camomil, 
 Dull Poppie, and drink-quickning Setuale, 
 Veyne-healing Verven, and hed-purging Dill, 
 Sound Savorie, and Bazil heartie-hale, 
 Fat Colworts, and comforting Perseline, 
 Colde Lettuce, and refreshing Rosemarine. 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 Muiopotmos: or The Fate of the Butterflie. 
 
 [108]
 
 VIRTUE -JOIN PRECIOUS'- TIME 
 
 A Wish 
 
 This only grant me, that my means may He 
 Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 
 
 Some honour I would have, 
 Not from great deeds, but good alone. 
 The unknown are better, than ill known; 
 
 Rumour can ope the grave. 
 Acquaintance I would have, but when't depends 
 Not on the number, but the choice of friends. 
 
 Books should, not business, entertain the light, 
 And sleep, as undisturb'd as death, the night. 
 
 My house a cottage more 
 Than palace, and should fitting be, 
 For all my use, no luxury. 
 
 My garden painted o'er 
 With nature's hand, not art's; and pleasures 
 
 yield, 
 Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 
 
 Thus would I double my life's fading space, 
 For he that runs it well, twice runs his race. 
 And in this true delight, 
 
 [109]
 
 "CT IN PRAISE OF GARDENS U 
 
 These unbought sports, this happy state, 
 I would not fear nor wish my fate, 
 
 But boldly say each night, 
 To-morrow let my sun his beams display, 
 Or, in clouds hide them ; I have liv'd to-day. 
 
 A. COWLEY. 
 
 The Mower Against Gardens 
 
 Luxurious man, to bring his vice in use, 
 
 Did after him the word seduce, 
 And from the fields the flowers and plants allure, 
 
 Where Nature was most plain and pure. 
 He first inclosed within the gardens square 
 
 A dead and standing pool of air, 
 And a more luscious earth for them did knead, 
 
 Which stupefied them while it fed. 
 The pink grew then as double as his mind ; 
 
 The nutriment did change the kind. 
 With strange perfumes he did the roses taint; 
 
 And flowers themselves were taught to paint. 
 The tulip white did for complexion seek, 
 
 And learned to interline its cheek; 
 Its onion root they then so high did hold, 
 
 That one was for a meadow sold: 
 
 [no]
 
 tT QUID CELERIUS TEMPORE ? tT 
 
 Another world was searched through oceans new. 
 
 To find the marvel of Peru; 
 And yet these rarities might be allowed 
 
 To man, that sovereign thing and proud, 
 Had he not dealt between the bark and tree, 
 
 Forbidden mixtures there to see. 
 No plant now knew the stock from which it 
 came; 
 
 He grafts upon the wild the tame, 
 That the uncertain and adulterate fruit 
 
 Might put the palate in dispute. 
 His green seraglio has its eunuchs too, 
 
 Lest any tyrant him outdo; 
 And in the cherry he does Nature vex, 
 
 To procreate without a sex. 
 'Tis all enforced, the fountain and the grot, 
 
 While the sweet fields do lie forgot, 
 Where willing Nature does to all dispense 
 
 A wild and fragrant innocence; 
 And fauns and fairies do the meadows till 
 
 More by their presence than their skill. 
 Their statues polished by some ancient hand, 
 
 May to adorn the gardens stand; 
 But, howsoe'er the figures do excel, 
 
 The Gods themselves with us do dwell. 
 
 A. MARVELL. 
 
 [in]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 A Garden of Flowers 
 
 Fairhanded Spring unbosoms every grace, 
 
 Throws out the Snowdrop and the Crocus first, 
 
 The Daisy, Primrose, Violet darkly blue, 
 
 And Polyanthus of unnumbered dyes; 
 
 The yellow Wallflower, stained with iron brown, 
 
 And lavish Stock that scents the garden round, 
 
 From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed 
 
 Anemones, Auriculas, enriched 
 
 With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves, 
 
 And full Ranunculus of glowing red. 
 
 Then comes the Tulip race, whose beauty plays 
 
 Her idle freaks, from family diffused 
 
 To family, as flies the father dust, 
 
 The varied colours run ; and while they break 
 
 On the charmed eye, the exulting florist marks, 
 
 With secret pride, the wonders of his hand. 
 
 No gradual bloom is wanting, from the bud, 
 
 First born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes 
 
 Nor Hyacinths of purest virgin white, 
 
 Low bent and blushing inwards nor Jonquils 
 
 Of potent fragrance nor Narcissus fair, 
 
 As o'er the fabled mountain hanging still 
 
 [112]
 
 U YE KNOW NOT THE HOUR U 
 
 Nor broad Carnations, nor gay spotted Pinks, 
 Nor showered from every bush the damasked 
 Rose. 
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 The Seasons 
 
 The Garden 
 
 Oh, blest seclusion from a jarring world, 
 Which he, thus occupied enjoys! Retreat 
 Cannot indeed to guilty man restore 
 Lost innocence, or cancel follies past, 
 But it has peace, and much secures the mind 
 From all assaults of evil, proving still 
 A faithful barrier, not o'erleaped with ease 
 By vicious Custom, raging uncontrolled 
 Abroad, and desolating public life. 
 
 Had I the choice of sublunary good, 
 
 What could I wish, that I possess not here? 
 
 Health, leisure, means to improve it, friendship, 
 
 peace, 
 
 No loose or wanton, though a wondering Muse, 
 And constant occupation without care. 
 
 [H3]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Thus blest, I draw a picture of that bliss; 
 Hopeless indeed that dissipated minds, 
 And profligate abusers of a world 
 Created fair so much in vain for them, 
 Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe, 
 Allured by my report: but sure no less, 
 That self-condemned they must neglect the prize, 
 And what they will not taste must yet approve. 
 
 What we admire we praise, and when we praise, 
 Advance it into notice, that its worth 
 Acknowledged, others may admire it too. 
 I therefore recommend, though at the risk 
 Of popular disgust, yet boldly still, 
 The cause of grief, and sacred truth 
 And virtue, and those scenes which God ordained 
 Should best secure them, and promote them most ; 
 Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive 
 Forsaken, or through folly not enjoyed. 
 Pure is the nymph, though liberal of her smiles, 
 And chaste, though unconfined, whom I extol. 
 Not as the prince in Shushan, when he called, 
 Vainglorious of her charms, his Vashti forth, 
 To grace the full pavillion. His design 
 Was but to boast his own peculiar good,
 
 tT EVERY DAY HAS ITS BOUNDS U 
 
 Which all might view with envy, none partake. 
 My charmer is not mine alone ; my sweets, 
 And she that sweetens all my bitters too, 
 Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form 
 And lineaments divine I trace a hand 
 That errs not, and find raptures still renewed, 
 Is free to all men universal prize. 
 Strange that so fair a creature should yet want 
 Admirers, and be destined to divide 
 With meaner objects even the few she finds! 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 The Task, Book III. 
 
 The Garden 
 
 Fain would my Muse the flow'ry Treasures sing, 
 And humble glories of the youthful Spring; 
 Where opening Roses breathing sweets diffuse, 
 And soft Carnations show'r their balmy dews; 
 Where Lilies smile in virgin robes of white, 
 The thin Undress of superficial Light, 
 And vary'd Tulips show so dazzling gay, 
 Blushing in bright diversities of day. 
 Each painted flow'ret in the lake below 
 
 [US]
 
 tT IN PRAISE OF GARDENS U 
 
 Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow; 
 And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vain 
 Transformed, gazes on himself again. 
 Here aged trees Cathedral Walks compose, 
 And mount the Hill in venerable rows: 
 There the green Infants in their beds are laid, 
 The Garden's Hope, and its expected shade. 
 Here Orange-trees with blooms and pendants 
 
 shine, 
 
 And vernal honours in their autumn join; 
 Exceed their promise in the ripen'd store, 
 Yet in the rising blossom promise more. 
 There in bright drops the crystal Fountains play, 
 By Laurels shielded from the piercing day; 
 Where Daphne, now a tree as once a maid, 
 Still from Apollo vindicates her shade, 
 Still turns her Beauties from th' invading beam, 
 Nor seeks in vain for succour to the Stream. 
 The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves, 
 At once a shelter from her boughs receives, 
 Where Summer's Beauty midst of Winter stays, 
 And Winter's Coolness spite of Summer's rays. 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 [116]
 
 LOOK INTO THYSELF 
 
 A Farewell 
 
 Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground, 
 
 Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair 
 
 Of that magnificent temple which doth bound 
 
 One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare; 
 
 Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, 
 
 The loveliest spot that man hath ever found, 
 
 Farewell! we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful 
 
 care, 
 Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround. 
 
 Our boat is safely anchored by the shore, 
 And there will safely ride when we are gone ; 
 The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door 
 Will prosper, though untended and alone: 
 Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none : 
 These narrow bounds contain our private store 
 Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon ; 
 Here are they in our sight we have no more. 
 
 Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender 
 
 heed, 
 
 Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown 
 Among the distant mountains, flower and weed, 
 
 [H7]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own, 
 Making all kindness registered and known; 
 Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child in- 
 
 deed, 
 
 Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, 
 Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. 
 
 And O most constant, yet most fickle place, 
 Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost 
 
 show 
 
 To them who look not daily on thy face; 
 Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, 
 And say'st, when we forsake thee, " Let them 
 
 go!" 
 
 Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race 
 Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, 
 And travel with the year at a soft pace. 
 
 O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep 
 Hath been -so friendly to industrious hours; 
 And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep 
 Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, 
 And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers; 
 Two burning months let summer overleap, 
 And, coming back with Her who will be ours, 
 Into thy bosom we again shall creep. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 [118]
 
 LET NOTHING BE LOST 
 
 November's sky is chill and drear, 
 November's leaf is red and sear: 
 Late, gazing down the sleepy linn, 
 That hems our little garden in, 
 Low in its dark and narrow glen, 
 You scarce the rivulet might ken, 
 So thick the tangled greenwood grew, 
 So feeble trilled the streamlet through: 
 Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen 
 Through bush and brier, no longer green 
 An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, 
 Brawls over rock and wild cascade, 
 And, foaming brown with doubled speed, 
 Hurries its waters to the Tweed. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 Marmion, Introduction. 
 
 Across my garden! and the thicket stirs, 
 The fountain pulses high in sunnier jets, 
 
 The blackcap warbles, and the turtle purrs, 
 The starling claps his tiny castanets. 
 
 Still round her forehead wheels the woodland 
 
 dove, 
 And scatters on her throat the sparks of dew,
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 The kingcup fills her footprint, and above 
 
 Broaden the glowing isles of vernal blue. 
 Hail ample presence of a Queen, 
 
 Bountiful, beautiful, apparell'd gay, 
 Whose mantle every shade of glancing green, 
 Flies back in fragrant breezes to display 
 A tunic white as May! 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 The Progress of Spring. 
 
 Hector in the Garden " 
 
 In the garden lay supinely 
 
 A huge giant wrought of spade! 
 
 Arms and legs were stretched at length 
 
 In a passive giant's strength, 
 
 The fine meadow turf, cut finely, 
 Round them laid and interlaid. 
 
 Call him Hector, son of Priam! 
 Such his title and degree, 
 With my rake I smoothed his brow, 
 Both his cheeks I weeded through, 
 
 [120]
 
 tf I WARN AS I MOVE t 
 
 But a rhymer such as I am, 
 Scarce can sing his dignity. 
 
 Eyes of gentianellas azure, 
 Staring, winking at the skies: 
 Nose of gillyflowers and box; 
 Scented grasses put for locks, 
 
 Which a little breeze at pleasure 
 Set a-waving round his eyes: 
 
 Brazen helm of daffodillies, 
 
 With a glitter toward the light; 
 Purple violets for the mouth, 
 Breathing perfumes west and south; 
 
 And a sword of flashing lilies, 
 Holden ready for the fight: 
 
 And a breastplate made of daisies, 
 
 Closely fitting, leaf on leaf; 
 
 Periwinkles interlaced 
 
 Drawn for belt about the waist; 
 While the brown bees, humming praises, 
 
 Shot their arrows round the chief. 
 
 Oh, the birds, the trees, the ruddy 
 And white blossoms sleek with rain! 
 
 [121]
 
 t? IN PRAISE OP GARDENS 
 
 Oh, my garden rich with pansies! 
 Oh, my childhood's bright romances! 
 All revive, like Hector's body, 
 And I see them stir again. 
 
 And despite life's changes, chances, 
 And despite the deathbell's toll. 
 They press on me in full seeming 
 Help, some angel! stay this dreaming! 
 
 As the birds sang in the branches, 
 Sing God's patience through my soul. 
 E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 Early Influence of Gardens Remains 
 Always 
 
 'Tis sweet to love in childhood, when the souls 
 
 that we bequeath 
 Are beautiful in freshness as the coronals we 
 
 wreathe ; 
 When we feed the gentle robin, and caress the 
 
 leaping hound, 
 And linger latest on the spot where buttercups 
 
 are found : 
 
 [122]
 
 LIVE WHILE YOU LIVE 
 
 When we seek the bee and ladybird with laugh- 
 
 ter, shout, and song, 
 And think the day for wooing them can never 
 
 be too long. 
 O ! 'tis sweet to love in childhood, and tho' stirred 
 
 by meanest things, 
 The music that the heart yields then will never 
 
 leave its strings. 
 
 'Tis sweet to love in after years the dear one by 
 
 our side; 
 To dote with all the mingled joys of passion, 
 
 hope, and pride; 
 To think the chain around our breast will hold 
 
 still warm and fast; 
 And grieve to know that death must come to 
 
 break the link at last. 
 But when the rainbow span of bliss is waning, 
 
 hue by hue; 
 When eyes forget their kindly beams, and lips 
 
 become less true; 
 When stricken hearts are pining on through 
 
 many a lonely hour, 
 Who would not sigh " 'tis safer far to love the 
 
 bird and flower? " 
 
 [123]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 'Tis sweet to love in ripen'd age the trumpet 
 
 blast of Fame, 
 To pant to live on glory's scroll, though blood 
 
 may trace the name; 
 'Tis sweet to love the heap of gold, and hug it 
 
 to our breast; 
 To trust it as the guiding star and anchor of 
 
 our rest. 
 But such devotion will not serve however 
 
 strong the zeal 
 To overthrow the altar where our childhood 
 
 loved to kneel, 
 Some bitter moment shall o'ercast the sun of 
 
 wealth and power, 
 And then proud man would fain go back to 
 
 worship bird and flower. 
 
 ELIZA COOK. 
 
 Ille Terrarum 
 
 Frae nirly, nippin', Eas'lan' breeze, 
 Frae Nor'lan' snow, an' haar o' seas, 
 Weel happit in your gairden trees, 
 
 A bonny bit, 
 Atween the muckle Pentland's knees, 
 
 Secure ye sit. 
 
 [124]
 
 LEAD KINDLY LIGHT 
 
 Beeches an' aiks entwine their theek, 
 An' firs, a stench, auld-farrant clique. 
 A' simmer day, your chimleys reek, 
 
 Couthy and bien; 
 An' here an' there your windies keek 
 
 Amang the green. 
 
 A pickle plats an' paths an' posies, 
 A wheen auld gillyflowers an' roses: 
 A ring o' wa's the hale encloses 
 
 Frae sheep or men; 
 An' there the auld housie beeks an' doses, 
 
 A' by her lane. 
 
 The gairdner crooks his weary back 
 
 A' day in the pitaity-track, 
 
 Or mebbe stops awhile to crack 
 
 Wi' Jane the cook, 
 Or at some buss, worm-eaten-black, 
 
 To gie a look. 
 
 Frae the high hills the curlow ca's; 
 The sheep gang baaing by the wa's; 
 Or whiles a clan o' roosty craws 
 
 Cangle thegether ; 
 The wild bees seek the gairden raws, 
 
 Wearit ai' heather. 
 
 [125]
 
 tT IN PRAISE OF GARDENS U 
 
 Or in the gloamin' douce an' grey 
 The sweet-throat mavis tunes her lay, 
 The herd comes linkin' doun the brae; 
 
 An' by degrees 
 The muckle sitter miine maks way 
 
 Amang the trees. 
 
 Here aft hae I, wi' sober heart, 
 For meditation sat apairt, 
 When orra loves or kittle art 
 
 Perplexed my mind; 
 Here socht a balm for ilka smart 
 
 O' human kind. 
 
 Here aft, weel neukit by my lane, 
 Wi' Horace, or perhaps Montaigne, 
 The mornin' hours hae come an' gane 
 
 Abiine my head 
 I wad nae gien a chucky-stane 
 
 For a' I'd read. 
 
 But noo the auld city, street by street, 
 An' winter fu' o' snaw an' sleet, 
 Awhile shut in my gangrel feet 
 
 An' goavin' mettle; 
 Noo is the soopit ingle sweet, 
 
 An' liltin' kettle. 
 
 [126]
 
 WITH GOD'S FAVOR 
 
 An' noo the winter winds complain; 
 Cauld lies the glacer in ilka lane; 
 On draigled hizzie, tautit wean 
 
 An' drucken lads, 
 In the mirk nicht, the winter rain 
 
 Dribbles and blads. 
 
 Whan bugles frae the Castle rock 
 An' beaten drum wi' dowie shock, 
 Wauken, at cauld-rife sax o'clock, 
 
 My chitterin' frame, 
 I mind me on the kintry cock, 
 
 The kintry hame. 
 
 I mind me on yon bonny bield; 
 An' Fancy traivels far afield 
 To gaither a' that gairdens yield 
 
 O* sun an' Simmer: 
 To hearten up a dowie chield, 
 Fancy's the limmer! 
 
 R. L. STEVENSON. 
 
 Underwoods. 
 
 [127]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 To a Garden 
 
 Friend, in thy mountain-side demesne, 
 My plain-beholding, rosy, green 
 And linnet-haunted garden ground, 
 Let still the esculents abound. 
 Let first the onion flourish there, 
 Rose among roots, the maiden-fair, 
 Wine scented and poetic soul 
 Of the capacious salad bowl. 
 Let thyme (The mountaineer to dress 
 The tinier birds) and wading cress, 
 The lover of the shallow brook, 
 From all my plots and borders look. 
 Nor crisp and ruddy radish, nor 
 Pease-cods for the child's pinafore 
 Be lacking; nor of salad clan 
 The last and least that ever ran 
 About great nature's garden beds. 
 Nor thence be missed the speary heads 
 Of artichoke; nor thence the bean 
 That gathered innocent and green 
 Outsavours the belauded pea. 
 
 These tend, I prithee ; and for me, 
 Thy most long-suffering master, bring 
 
 [128]
 
 I SHINE OR SHROUD 
 
 In April, when the linnets sing 
 
 And the days lengthen more and more, 
 
 At sundown to the garden door. 
 
 And I, being provided thus, 
 
 Shall, with superb asparagus, 
 
 A book, a taper, and a cup 
 
 Of country wine, divinely sup. 
 
 R. L. STEVENSON. 
 
 Underwoods. 
 
 The Sun's Travels " 
 
 The sun is not a-bed, when I 
 
 At night upon my pillow lie; 
 
 Still round the earth his way he takes, 
 
 And morning after morning makes. 
 
 While here at home, in shining day, 
 We round the sunny garden play, 
 Each little Indian sleepy-head 
 Is being kissed and put to bed. 
 
 And when at eve I rise from tea, 
 Day dawns beyond the Atlantic Sea; 
 
 [129]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 And all the children of the West 
 Are getting up and being dressed. 
 
 R. L. STEVENSON. 
 A Child's Garden of Verses. 
 
 As from the house your mother sees 
 You playing round the garden trees, 
 So you may see, if you will look 
 Through the windows of this book, 
 Another child, far, far away, 
 And in another garden, play. 
 But do not think you can at all, 
 By knocking on the window, call 
 That child to hear you. He intent 
 Is all on his play-business bent. 
 He does not hear; he will not look, 
 Nor yet be lured out of this book. 
 For, long ago, the truth to say, 
 He has grown up and gone away, 
 And it is but a child of air 
 That lingers in the garden there. 
 
 R. L. STEVENSON. 
 A Child's Garden of Verses. 
 
 [130]
 
 NOW OR NEVER 
 
 " Night and Day " 
 
 When the golden day is done, 
 Through the closing portal, 
 
 Child and garden, flower and sun, 
 Vanish all things mortal. 
 
 As the blinding shadows fall 
 
 As the rays diminish, 
 Under evening's cloak, they all 
 
 Roll away and vanish. 
 
 Garden darkened, daisy shut, 
 Child in bed, they slumber 
 
 Glow-worm in the highway rut, 
 Mice among the lumber. 
 
 In the darkness houses shine, 
 Parents move with candles; 
 
 Till on all, the night divine 
 Turns the bedroom handles. 
 
 Till at last the day begins 
 
 In the east a-breaking, 
 In the hedges and the whins 
 
 Sleeping birds awaking.
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 In the darkness shapes of things, 
 Houses, trees, and hedges, 
 
 Clearer grow ; and sparrow's wings 
 Beat on window ledges. 
 
 These shall w r ake the yawning made; 
 
 She the door shall open 
 Finding dew on garden glade 
 
 And the morning broken. 
 
 There my garden grows again 
 
 Green and rosy painted, 
 As at eve behind the pane 
 
 From my eyes it fainted. 
 
 Just as it was shut away, 
 
 Toylike, in the even, 
 Here I see it glow with day 
 
 Under glowing heaven. 
 
 Every path and every plot, 
 
 Every bush of roses, 
 Every blue forget-me-not, 
 
 Where the dew reposes. 
 
 [132]
 
 WITHOUT SUN I KEEP SILENCE 
 
 " Up ! " they cry, " the day is come 
 
 On the smiling valleys: 
 We have beat the morning drum ; 
 Playmate, join your allies ! " 
 
 R. L. STEVENSON. 
 A Child's Garden of Verses. 
 
 My pleasaunce was an undulating green, 
 Stately with trees whose shadows slept below, 
 
 With glimpses of smooth garden-beds between 
 Like flame or sky or snow. 
 
 Woodpigeons cooed there, stock-doves nestled 
 
 there ; 
 My trees were full of songs and flowers and 
 
 fruit ; 
 
 Their branches spread a city in the air 
 And mice lodged in their root. 
 
 CHRISTINA E. ROSSETTI. 
 
 From House to Home. 
 
 [133]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 The Garden in September* 
 
 Now thin mists temper the slow ripening beams 
 Of the September sun: his golden gleams 
 On gaudy flowers shine, that prank the rows 
 Of high-grown hollyhocks, and all tall shows 
 That Autumn flaunteth in his bushy bowers; 
 Where tomtits hanging from the drooping heads 
 Of giant sunflowers, peck the nutty seeds; 
 And in the feathery aster bees on wing 
 Seize and set free the honied flowers, 
 Till thousand stars leap with their visiting: 
 While over across the path mazily flit, 
 Unpiloted in the sun, 
 The dreamy butterflies 
 
 With dazzling colors pondered and soft glooms, 
 White, black and crimson stripes, and peacock 
 
 eyes, 
 
 Or on chance flowers sit, 
 With idle effort plundering one by one 
 The nectaries of deepest-throated blooms. 
 
 With gentle flaws the western breeze 
 Into the garden saileth, 
 
 * Copyright, 1893, The Macmillan Co. 
 [134]
 
 tT THOUGH SILENT I SPEAK tT 
 
 Scarce here and there stirring the single trees, 
 
 For his sharpness he waileth: 
 
 So long a comrade of the bearded corn, 
 
 Now from the stubbles whence the shocks are 
 
 borne, 
 
 O'er dewy lawns he turns to stray, 
 As mindful of the kisses and soft play 
 Wherewith he enamored the light-headed way, 
 Ere he deserted her; 
 
 Lover of fragrance, and too late repents; 
 No more of heavy hyacinth now may drink, 
 No spicy pink, 
 
 Nor summer's rose, nor garnered lavender, 
 But the few lingering scents 
 Of streaked pea, and gillyflower, and stocks 
 Of courtly purple, and aromatic phlox. 
 
 And at all times to hear the drowsy tones 
 
 Of dizzy flies, and humming drones, 
 
 With sudden flap of pigeon wings in the sky, 
 
 Or the wild cry 
 
 Of thirsty rooks, that scour ascare 
 
 The distant blue, to watering as they fare 
 
 With creaking pinions, or on business bent, 
 
 If aught their ancient politics displease, 
 
 [135]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Wheel round their nested colony, and there 
 Settling in ragged parliament, 
 Some stormy council hold in the high trees. 
 
 ROBERT BRIDGES. 
 
 The pinks along my garden walks 
 Have all shot forth their summer stalks, 
 Thronging their buds 'mong tulips hot, 
 And blue forget-me-not. 
 
 Their dazzling snows forth-bursting soon 
 Will lade the idle breath of June: 
 And waken thro' the fragrant night 
 To steal the pale moonlight. 
 
 The nightingale at end of May 
 Lingers each year for their display; 
 Till when he sees their blossoms blown, 
 He knows the spring is flown. 
 
 June's birth they greet, and when their bloom 
 Dislustres, withering as his tomb, 
 Then summer hath a shortening day; 
 And steps slow to decay. 
 
 ROBERT BRIDGES. 
 
 [136]
 
 THE DAY IS THINE 
 
 Autumn Tints 
 
 Coral-colored yew-berries 
 
 Strew the garden ways, 
 Hollyhocks and sunflowers 
 
 Make a dazzling blaze 
 
 In these latter days. 
 
 Marigolds by cottage doors 
 Flaunt their golden pride, 
 
 Crimson-punctured bramble leaves 
 Dapple far and wide 
 The green mountain side. 
 
 For the year that's on the wane, 
 
 Gathering all its fire, 
 Flares up through the kindling world 
 As, ere they expire 
 Flames leap high and higher. 
 
 MATHILDE BLIND. 
 
 The garden walks are wet with dew 
 Fresh gather'd from the rosy hours, 
 
 The busy insects hum anew, 
 
 And stir to life the sleeping flow'rs; 
 
 [137]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 While, gaily from the green o'erhead, 
 
 Upon a spray of tender thorn 
 That blushes into white and red, 
 
 A glad thrush sings and makes the morn! 
 WILLIAM ACKERMAN. 
 
 The little window looks upon the East, 
 And far beneath the scented garden ground 
 Exhales its fragrance; it is wafted up 
 The white magnolia sends a cloud of scent 
 Which oft in certain quarters of the wind 
 Pours tide-like through the casement. You detect 
 The faint sweet perfume of white rose and red. 
 The lily languishes and droops and dies, 
 But cannot reach it. Yet the maiden knows 
 Its virgin bloom is ever pouring out 
 Delicious life in aspiration there, 
 And it stands first of all her garden queens 
 In her pure love and vivifying care. 
 
 DORA STUART-MONTEITH. 
 
 Avalon. 
 
 [138]
 
 REDEEM YE TIME 
 
 House Fantastic 
 
 Stood the house where I was born 
 
 In a garden grown of old, 
 Where the heavy-scented flowers 
 Lay in wait to trap the hours, 
 Snare the days in books and bowers 
 And the moons in mazes fold. 
 
 ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE. 
 
 A Book of Mystery and Vision. 
 
 In Springtime 
 
 My garden blazes brightly with the rose-bush 
 
 and the peach, 
 And the koil sings above it, in the siris by 
 
 the well; 
 
 From the creeper-covered trellis comes the squir- 
 rel's chattering speech, 
 
 And the blue-jay screams and flutters where 
 the cherry sat-bhai dwell. 
 
 But the rose has lost its fragrance, and the koil's 
 
 note is strange; 
 
 I am sick of endless sunshine, sick of blossom- 
 burdened bough. 
 
 [139]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Give me back the leafless woodlands where the 
 
 winds of Springtime range 
 Give me back one day in England for it's 
 Spring in England now! 
 
 Through the pines the gusts are blooming, o'er 
 
 the brown fields blowing chill; 
 From the furrow of the ploughshare streams 
 
 the fragrance of the loam; 
 And the hawk nests on the cliff-side and the 
 
 jackdaw in the hill 
 
 And my heart is back in England 'mid the 
 sight and sounds of Home. 
 
 But the garland of the sacrifice this wealth of 
 
 rose and peach is; 
 
 Ah ! koil, little koil, singing on the siris bough. 
 In my ears the knell of exile your ceaseless bell- 
 
 like speech is 
 
 Can you tell me aught of England, or of 
 Spring in England now? 
 
 RUDYARD KIPLING. 
 Departmental Ditties. 
 
 [140]
 
 LEARN HOW TO LIVE 
 
 Along the lawns the tulip-lamps are lit, 
 
 Amber, and amaranth, and ivory, 
 Porphyry, silver and chalcedony 
 
 Filled with the sunlight and the joy of it. 
 
 The tulip lamps are lit the Spring's own gold 
 Glows burning bright in each illumined cup, 
 
 Wrought in those secret mines of dusky mould 
 Where Winter's hidden hoard was garnered 
 up. 
 
 The flame will fade, the goblets break and fall, 
 Strewing the dim earth with their beauty's 
 
 wrack ; 
 All will be spent and past their festival 
 
 Ere the first vagrant swallow shall come back. 
 ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON. 
 
 " In the Heart of a Garden." 
 
 Vestured and veiled with twilight, 
 Lulled in the winter's ease, 
 
 Dim, and happy, and silent, 
 
 My garden dreams by its trees. 
 
 [141]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Urn of the sprayless fountain, 
 
 Glimmering nymph and faun, 
 Gleam through the dark-plumed cedar, 
 
 Fade on the dusky lawn. 
 
 Here is no stir of summer, 
 
 Here is no pulse of spring; 
 Never a bud to burgeon, 
 
 Never a bird to sing. 
 
 Dreams and the kingdom of quiet! 
 
 Only the dead leaves lie 
 Over the fallen roses 
 
 Under the shrouded sky. 
 
 Folded and fenced with silence, 
 
 Mindless of mail and mart, 
 It is twilight here in my garden, 
 And twilight here in my heart. 
 ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON. 
 
 " In the Heart of a Garden." 
 
 So while with frost my garden lies, 
 So still, so bright, my garden is, 
 
 For sure the fields of Paradise 
 Show not more fair than this: 
 
 [142]
 
 U THINK HOW TO DIE ET 
 
 The streets of pearl, the gates of gold, 
 
 Are they, indeed, more peace-possessed 
 Than this white pleasaunce, pure and cold, 
 Against an amber West? 
 
 ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON. 
 
 " In the Heart of a Garden." 
 
 An Autumn Garden 
 
 My tent stands in a garden 
 Of aster and golden-rod, 
 Tilled by the rain and the sunshine, 
 And sown by the hand of God, 
 And old New England pasture 
 Abandoned to peace and time, 
 And by the magic of beauty 
 Reclaimed to the sublime. 
 
 About it are golden woodlands 
 
 Of tulip and hickory; 
 
 On the open ridge behind it 
 
 You many mount to a glimpse of sea,- 
 
 The far-off, blue, Homeric 
 
 Rim of the world's great shield, 
 
 [143]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 A border of boundless glamour 
 For the soul's familiar field. 
 
 In purple and gray-wrought lichen 
 The boulders lie in the sun; 
 Along its grassy footpath, 
 The white-tailed rabbits run. 
 The crickets work and chirrup 
 Through the still afternoon; 
 And the owl calls at twilight 
 Under the frosty moon. 
 
 The odorous wild grape clambers 
 
 Over the tumbling wall, 
 
 And through the autumnal quiet 
 
 The chestnuts open and fall. 
 
 Sharing time's freshness and fragrance, 
 
 Part of the earth's great soul, 
 
 Here man's spirit may ripen 
 
 To wisdom serene and whole. 
 
 Shall we not grow with the asters? 
 Never reluctant nor sad, 
 Not counting the cost of being, 
 Living to dare and be glad. 
 
 [H4]
 
 WATCH AND PRAY 
 
 Shall we not lift with the crickets 
 A chorus of ready cheer, 
 Braving the frost of oblivion, 
 Quick to be happy here ? 
 
 The deep red cones of the sumach 
 And the woodbine's crimson sprays 
 Have bannered the common roadside 
 For the pageant of passing days. 
 These are the oracles Nature 
 Fills with her holy breath, 
 Giving them glory of color, 
 Transcending the shadow of death. 
 
 Here in the sifted sunlight 
 A spirit seems to brood 
 On the beauty and worth of being, 
 In tranquil, instinctive mood ; 
 And the heart, athrob with gladness 
 Such as the wise earth knows, 
 Wells with a full thanksgiving 
 For the gifts that life bestows: 
 
 For the ancient and virile nurture 
 Of the teeming primordial ground, 
 
 [H5]
 
 tl IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 For the splendid gospel of color, 
 The rapt revelations of sound ; 
 For the morning-blue above us 
 And the rusted gold of the fern, 
 For the chickadee's call to valor 
 Bidding the faint-heart turn; 
 
 For fire and running water, 
 Snowfall and summer rain; 
 For sunsets and quiet meadows, 
 The fruit and the standing grain ; 
 For the solemn hour of moonrise 
 Over the crest of trees, 
 When the mellow lights are kindled 
 In the lamps of the centuries. 
 
 For those who wrought aforetime, 
 Led by the mystic strain 
 To strive for the larger freedom, 
 And live for the greater gain; 
 For plenty and peace and playtime, 
 The homely goods of earth, 
 And for rare immaterial treasures 
 Accounted of little worth ; 
 
 For art and learning and friendship, 
 Where beneficent truth is supreme, 
 
 [146]
 
 I SHALL GO AND RETURN 
 
 Those everlasting cities 
 Built on the hills of dream; 
 For all things growing and goodly 
 That foster this life, and breed 
 The immortal flower of wisdom 
 Out of the mortal seed. 
 
 But most of all for the spirit 
 That can not rest nor bide 
 In stale and sterile convenience, 
 Nor safety proven and tried, 
 But still inspired and driven, 
 Must seek what better may be, 
 And up from the loveliest garden 
 Must climb for a glimpse of sea. 
 
 BLISS CARMAN. 
 
 The Tasteless Garden 
 
 His Gardens next your admiration call, 
 On every side you look, behold the Wall! 
 No pleasing Intricacies intervene, 
 No artful wildness to perplex the scene ; 
 
 [147]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother, 
 And half the platform just reflects the other. 
 The sufF ring eye inverted Nature sees, 
 Trees cut to Statues, statues thick as trees; 
 With here a fountain, never to be played ; 
 And there a summer-house, that knows no shade ; 
 Here Amphitrite sails thro' myrtle bowers; 
 There Gladiators fight, or die in flowers; 
 Unwatered see the drooping sea-horse mourn, 
 And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty Urn. 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 Moral Essays, Ep. IV. 
 
 Child's Song 
 
 I have a garden of my own, 
 
 Shining with flowers of every hue; 
 I love it dearly while alone, 
 
 But I shall love it more with you: 
 And there the golden bees shall crone, 
 
 In summer-time at break of morn, 
 And wake us with their busy hum 
 
 Around the Siha's fragrant thorn. 
 
 [148]
 
 CT TO-DAY IS WITH YOU U 
 
 I have a fawn from Aden's land, 
 
 On leafy buds and berries nurst; 
 And you shall feed him from your hand, 
 
 Though he may start with fear at first. 
 And I will lead you where he lies 
 
 For shelter in the noon-tide heat; 
 And you may touch his sleepy eyes, 
 
 And feel his little silvery feet. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE.
 
 Gardens Lost and Found 
 
 THE HOUR THOU READEST -NOW ON ME 
 
 WILL NEVER MORE BE OFFERED THEE. 
 
 IF THOU TAK'ST HEED WISE THOU WILT BE.
 
 READ HERE LIGHT'S MESSAGE 
 
 And the spring arose on the garden fair, 
 Like the spirit of Love felt everywhere; 
 And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast 
 Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 
 
 The snowdrop and the violet, 
 
 Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, 
 
 And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, 
 
 sent 
 From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. 
 
 Then he pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, 
 And narcissi, the fairest among them all, 
 Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, 
 Till they die of their own dear loveliness. 
 
 And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, 
 Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, 
 That the light of its tremulous bells is seen 
 Through their pavilions of tender green; 
 
 [153]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, 
 Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
 Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, 
 It was felt like an odour within the sense; 
 
 And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, 
 Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 
 Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
 The soul of her beauty and love lay bare: 
 
 And the wand-like lily which lifted up, 
 
 As a Maenad, its moonlight coloured cup, 
 
 Till the fiery star which is its eye, 
 
 Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky; 
 
 And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 
 The sweetest flower for scent that blows; 
 And all rare blossoms from every clime 
 Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 
 
 And on the stream whose inconstant bosom 
 Was prankt under boughs of embowering blos- 
 
 som, 
 
 With golden and green light, slanting through 
 Their heaven of many a tangled hue. 
 
 [154]
 
 THE PAST IS -DEAD 
 
 Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, 
 
 And starry river-buds glimmered by, 
 
 And around them the soft stream did glide and 
 
 dance 
 With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. 
 
 And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, 
 Which led through the garden along and across, 
 Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, 
 Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees, 
 
 Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells 
 As fair as the fabulous asphodels, 
 And flowrets which drooping as day drooped too 
 Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue, 
 To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew. 
 
 And from this undefiled Paradise, 
 The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes 
 Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet 
 Can first lull, and at last must awaken it), 
 
 WTien Heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them, 
 As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, 
 
 [155]
 
 tT IN PRAISE OF GARDENS tT 
 
 Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one 
 Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun; 
 
 For each one was interpenetrated 
 
 With the light and the odour its neighbour shed, 
 
 Like young lovers whom youth and love made 
 
 dear 
 
 Wrapped and rilled by their mutual atmosphere. 
 ***** 
 
 There was a Power in this sweet place, 
 
 An Eve in this Eden; a ruling grace 
 
 Which to the flowers did they waken or dream, 
 
 Was as God is to the starry scheme, 
 
 A Lady, the wonder of her kind, 
 Whose form was upborne by a lovely mind 
 Which, dilating, had moulded her mien and mo- 
 tion 
 Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean, 
 
 Tended the garden from morn to even: 
 And the meteors of that sublunar heaven, 
 Like the lamps of the air when night walks forth, 
 Laughed round her footsteps up from the Earth! 
 
 ***** 
 
 [156]
 
 WATCH AND PRAY 
 
 Her step seemed to pity the grass it prest; 
 You might hear by the heaving of her breast, 
 That the coming and the going of the wind 
 Brought pleasure there and left passion behind. 
 
 ***** 
 
 I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet 
 Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet; 
 I doubt not they felt the spirit that came 
 From her glowing fingers thro' all their frame. 
 
 She sprinkled bright water from the stream 
 On those that were faint with the sunny beam; 
 And out of the cups of the heavy flowers 
 She emptied the rain of the thunder showers. 
 
 She lifted their heads with her tender hands, 
 And sustained them with rods and osier bands; 
 If the flowers had been her own infants she 
 Could never have nursed them more tenderly. 
 PERCY B. SHELLEY. 
 
 The Sensitive Plant. 
 
 [157]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 An Eastern City's Garden 
 
 Black the garden-bowers and grots 
 Slumber'd: the solemn palms were ranged 
 Above, unwoo'd of summer wind; 
 A sudden splendour from behind 
 Flush'd all the leaves with gold-green, 
 And, flowing rapidly between 
 Their interspaces, counterchanged 
 The level lake with diamond-plots 
 Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 
 For it was in the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 Thence thro' the garden I was drawn 
 A realm of pleasance, many a mound, 
 And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn 
 Full of the city's stilly sound, 
 And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round 
 The stately cedar, tamarisks, 
 Thick rosaries of scented thorn, 
 Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 
 Craven with emblems of the time, 
 
 [158]
 
 I RENEW MYSELF EVERY DAY tT 
 
 In honour of the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 Recollections of the Arabian Nights. 
 
 But I know where a garden grows, 
 Fairer than aught in the world beside, 
 All made up of the lily and rose 
 That blew by night, when the season is good, 
 To the sound of dancing music and flutes. 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Maud. 
 
 Across the Convent garden walls 
 
 The wind blows from the silver seas; 
 Black shadow of the cypress falls 
 
 Between the moon-meshed olive trees; 
 Sleep-walking from their golden bowers, 
 Flit disembodied orange flowers. 
 
 MATHILDE BLIND. 
 (The Mystic's Vision.) 
 
 [159]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 He passed the garden where, snow white and red, 
 I tended the flowers which gave us our bread, 
 
 And watered my lilies and roses; 
 He passed and repassed both early and late, 
 And lingering, often would lean on the gate 
 
 While I tied for him one of my posies. 
 
 Though thou seest them not with the bodily eye, 
 The language of flowers much better than I, 
 I know that thou knowest, my brother. 
 
 Violets then golden daffodils 
 
 Which the light of the sun like a winecup fills 
 
 Tall tulips like flames upspringing 
 Golden-crown wall-flowers bright as his locks 
 Marigolds balsams and perfumed stocks 
 Whose scent's like a blackbird's singing. 
 MATHILDE BLIND. 
 
 (Renunciation.) 
 
 I planted a rose tree in my garden, 
 
 In early days when the year was young; 
 
 I thought it would bear me roses, roses, 
 
 While nights were dewy and days were long. 
 
 [160]
 
 PLANT AND WAIT 
 
 It bore but once, and a white rose only 
 
 A lovely rose with petals of light; 
 Like the moon in heaven, supreme and lonely, 
 And the lightning struck it one summer night. 
 MATHILDE BLIND. 
 
 (Love in Exile.) 
 
 Only Roses 
 
 To a garden full of posies 
 Cometh one to gather flowers; 
 And he wanders through its bowers 
 
 Toying with the wanton roses, 
 Who, uprising from their beds, 
 Hold on high their shameless heads 
 
 With their pretty lips a-pouting, 
 
 Never doubting never doubting 
 That for Cytherean posies 
 He would gather aught but roses. 
 
 In a nest of weeds and nettles, 
 
 Lay a violet, half hidden; 
 
 Hoping that his glance unbidden 
 Yet might fall upon her petals. 
 
 Though she lived alone, apart, 
 
 [161]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Hope lay nestling at her heart,' 
 But alas! the cruel awakening 
 Set her little heart a-breaking, 
 For he gathers for his posies 
 Only roses only roses. 
 
 W. S. GILBERT. 
 (The Bab Ballads.) 
 
 In a College Garden 
 
 Birds, that cry so loud in the old, green, bowery 
 
 garden, 
 Your song is of Love! Love! Love! Will ye 
 
 weary not nor cease? 
 For the loveless soul grows sick, the heart that 
 
 the grey days harden; 
 
 I know too well that ye love! I would ye 
 should hold your peace! 
 
 I too have seen Love rise, like a star; I have 
 
 marked his setting; 
 
 I dreamed in my folly and pride that Life 
 without Love were peace. 
 
 [162]
 
 I TRAVEL FAST 
 
 But if Love should await me yet, in the land of 
 
 sleep and forgetting 
 
 Ah, bird, could you sing me this, I would not 
 your song should cease! 
 
 A. C. BENSON. 
 
 (Poems.) 
 
 rhe Moss-Rose 
 
 Walking to-day in your garden, O gracious lady, 
 Little you thought, as you turned in that alley 
 
 remote and shady 
 And gave me a rose, and asked if I knew its 
 
 savour 
 The old-world scent of the moss-rose, flower of 
 
 a bygone favour 
 
 Little you thought, as you waited the word of 
 appraisement, 
 
 Laughing at first, and then amazed at my amaze- 
 ment, 
 
 That the rose you gave was a gift already cher- 
 ished, 
 
 And the garden whence you plucked it a garden 
 long perished. 
 
 [163]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 But I I saw that garden, with its one treasure 
 The tiny moss-rose, tiny even by childhood's 
 
 measure. 
 
 And the long morning shadow of the rusty laurel, 
 And a boy and a girl beneath it, flushed with 
 
 a childish quarrel. 
 
 She wept for her one little bud; but he, out- 
 
 reaching 
 The hand of brotherly right, would take it for 
 
 all her beseeching; 
 And she flung her arms about him, and gave like 
 
 a sister, 
 And laughed at her own tears, and wept again 
 
 when he kissed her. 
 
 So the rose is mine long since, and whenever I 
 
 find it 
 And drink again the sharp sweet scent of the 
 
 moss behind it, 
 I remember the tears of a child, and her love 
 
 and her laughter, 
 And the morning shadows of youth, and the night 
 
 that fell thereafter. 
 
 HENRY NEWBOLT. 
 
 [164]
 
 The Garden of Peace 
 
 ONLY AS I ABIDE IN THE LIGHT OF 
 
 HEAVEN 
 DO I FULFILL THE WILL - OF MY MAKER.
 
 PRAISE A FAIR DAY AT NIGHT U 
 
 When almost ended was the month of May, 
 And I had roamed, throughout the summer's day, 
 Along the meadow green, whereof I told, 
 The freshly springing daisy to behold, 
 And when the sun declined from south to west, 
 And closed was this fair flower, and gone to rest 
 For fear of darkness that she held in dread, 
 Home to my house full hastily I sped; 
 And, in a little garden of my own, 
 Well-benched with fresh-cut turf, with grass 
 
 o'ergrown, 
 
 I bade that men my couch should duly make; 
 For daintiness and for the summer's sake, 
 I bade them strew fresh blossoms o'er my bed. 
 
 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 
 (Prologue of The Legend of Good 
 
 A Flower Garden 
 
 Tell me, ye Zephyrs, that unfold, 
 While fluttering o'er this gay Recess, 
 Pinions that fanned the teeming mould 
 
 [167]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Of Eden's blissful wilderness, 
 Did only softly stealing hours 
 There close the peaceful lives of flowers? 
 
 Say, when the moving creatures saw 
 All kinds commingled without fear, 
 Prevailed a like indulgent law 
 For the still growths that prosper here? 
 Did wanton faun and kid forbear 
 The half-blown rose, the lily spare? 
 
 Or peeped they often from their beds, 
 And prematurely disappeared, 
 Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads 
 A bosom to the sun endeared? 
 If such their harsh untimely doom, 
 It falls not here on bud or bloom. 
 
 All summer long the happy Eve 
 Of this fair Spot her flowers may bind, 
 Nor e'er, with ruffled fancy, grieve, 
 From the next glance she casts, to find 
 That love for little things by Fate 
 Is rendered vain as love for great. 
 
 [168]
 
 SO MARCHES THE GOD -OF- DAY 
 
 Yet, where the guardian fence is wound, 
 So subtly are our eyes beguiled 
 We see not nor suspect a bound, 
 No more than in some forest wild ; 
 The sight is free as air or crost 
 Only by art in nature lost. 
 
 And, though the jealous turf refuse 
 By random footsteps to be prest, 
 And feed on never-sullied dews, 
 Ye, gentle breezes from the west, 
 With all the ministers of hope 
 Are tempted to this sunny slope! 
 
 And hither throngs of birds resort; 
 Some, inmates lodged in shady nests, 
 Some, perched on stems of stately port 
 That nod to welcome transient guests; 
 While hare and leveret, seen at play, 
 Appear not more shut out than they. 
 
 Apt emblem (for repose of pride) 
 This delicate enclosure shows 
 Of modest kindness, that would hide 
 The firm protection she bestows; 
 
 [169]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Of manners, like its viewless fence, 
 Ensuring peace to innocence. 
 
 Thus spake the moral Muse her wing 
 Abruptly spreading to depart, 
 She left that farewell offering, 
 Moments of some docile heart; 
 That may respect the good old age 
 When Fancy was Truth's willing Page; 
 And Truth would skim the flowery glade, 
 Though entering but as Fancy's Shade. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
 Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. 
 News from the humming city comes to it 
 In sound of funeral or of marriage bells; 
 And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear 
 The windy clanging of the minster clock; 
 Although between it and the garden lies 
 A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream 
 That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, 
 Waves all its lilies. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 (The Gardener's Daughter.) 
 
 [170]
 
 IT IS LATER THAN YOU THINK 
 
 A garden bower'd close 
 
 With plaited allays of the trailing rose, 
 
 Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, 
 
 Or opening upon level plots 
 
 Of crowned lilies, standing near 
 
 Purple-spiked lavendar : 
 
 Whither in after life retired 
 
 From brawling storms, 
 
 From weary wind; 
 
 With youthful fancy reinspired, 
 
 We may hold converse, with all forms 
 
 Of the many-sided mind. . . . 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 In Green Old Gardens 
 
 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;
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Where the high red walls, which are growing 
 
 grey 
 
 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 honey's store) 
 
 Right to the heart of the old-world flowers 
 China-asters and purple stocks, 
 Dahlias and tall red holly-hocks, 
 
 Laburnums raining their golden showers, 
 Columbines prim of the folded core, 
 And lupins, and larkspurs, and " London pride " ; 
 
 Where the heron is waiting amongst the reeds, 
 Grown tame in the silence that reigns around, 
 
 Broken only, now and then, 
 By shy woodpecker or noisy jay, 
 By the far-off watch-dog's muffled bay; 
 
 But where never the purposeless laughter of 
 
 men, 
 
 Or the seething city's murmurous sound 
 Will float up over the river-weeds. 
 
 [172]
 
 tT IN HEAVEN IS REST U 
 
 Here may I live what life I please, 
 Married and buried out of sight, 
 
 Married to pleasure, and buried to pain, 
 Hidden away amongst scenes like these, 
 Under the fans of the chestnut trees; 
 
 Living my child-life over again, 
 With the further hope of a fallen delight, 
 Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees. 
 
 In green old gardens, hidden away 
 
 From sight of revel and sound of strife, 
 Here have I leisure to breathe and move, 
 And to do my work in a nobler way ; 
 To sing my songs, and to say my say; 
 
 To dream my dreams, and to love my love; 
 To hold my faith, and to live my life, 
 Making the most of its shadowy day. 
 
 VIOLET FANE. 
 
 Shut Out 
 
 The door was shut, I looked between 
 Its iron bars; and saw it lie, 
 My garden, mine, beneath the sky, 
 
 Pied with all flowers bedewed and green. 
 
 [173]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 From bough to bough the song-birds crossed, 
 From flower to flower the moths and bees; 
 With all its nests and stately trees 
 
 It had been mine, and it was lost. 
 
 A shadowless spirit kept the gate, 
 Blank and unchanging like the grave, 
 Is peering through, said : " Let me have 
 
 Some buds to cheer my outcast state." 
 
 He answered not. " Or give me, then, 
 But one small twig from shrub or tree, 
 And bid my home remember me 
 
 Until I come to it again." 
 
 The spirit was silent; but he took 
 Mortar and stone to build a wall; 
 He left no loophole great or small 
 
 Through which my straining eyes might look. 
 
 So now I sit here quite alone, 
 
 Blinded with tears; nor grieve for that, 
 For nought is left worth looking at 
 
 Since my delightful land is gone. 
 
 [174]
 
 LIVE TO DIE U 
 
 A violet bed is budding near, 
 
 Wherein a lark has made her nest; 
 And good they are, but not the best; 
 
 And dear they are, but so dear. 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 An October Garden 
 
 In my Autumn garden I was fain 
 
 To mourn among my scattered roses; 
 Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses 
 To Autumn's languid sun and rain 
 When all the world is on the wane! 
 
 Which has not felt the sweet restraint of June, 
 Nor heard the nightingale in tune. 
 
 Broad-faced asters by my garden walk, 
 You are but coarse compared with roses; 
 More choice, more dear that rosebud which 
 
 uncloses, 
 
 Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stock, 
 That least and last, which cold winds balk; 
 A rose it is though least and last of all, 
 A rose to me though at the fall. 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 [i75]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 O my Garden, full of roses, 
 
 Red as passion and as sweet, 
 Failing not when summer closes, 
 
 Lasting on through cold and heat! 
 O my Garden, full of lilies, 
 
 White as peace, and very tall, 
 In your midst my heart so still is 
 
 I can hear the last leaf fall. 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
 (Garden Secrets.) 
 
 In a Kentish Rose Garden 
 
 Beside a Dial in the leafy close, 
 Where every bush was burning with the Rose, 
 With million roses falling flake by flake 
 Upon the lawn in fading summer snows: 
 
 I read the Persian Poet's rhyme of old, 
 Each thought a ruby in a ring of gold 
 Old thoughts so young, that, after all these years, 
 They're writ on every rose-leaf yet unrolled. 
 
 [176]
 
 SING WITH THE BIRDS 
 
 You may not know the secret tongue aright 
 The Sunbeams on their rosy tablets write; 
 Only a poet may perchance translate 
 Those ruby-tinted hieroglyphs of light. 
 
 MATHILDE BLIND. 
 
 (On Reading the " Rubaiyat of Omar Khay- 
 yam") 
 
 A Garden Song 
 
 Here, in this sequestered close 
 Blown the hyacinth and the rose; 
 Here beside the modest stock 
 Flaunts the flowing holly-hock; 
 Here, without a pang, one sees 
 Ranks, conditions and degrees. 
 
 All the seasons run their race 
 In this quiet resting-place; 
 Peach, and apricot, and fig 
 Here will ripen, and grow big; 
 Here is store and overplus, 
 More had not Alcinoiis! 
 
 [177]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Here, in alleys, cool and green, 
 Far ahead the thrush is seen; 
 Here along the. southern wall 
 Keeps the bee his festival; 
 All is quiet else afar 
 Sounds of toil and turmoil are. 
 
 Here be shadows large and long; 
 Here be spaces meet for song; 
 Grant, O garden-god, that I 
 Now that none profane is nigh, 
 Now that mood and moment please, 
 Find the fair Pierides. 
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 (At the Sign of the Lyre.) 
 
 The Spirit of all Gardens 
 
 Here I untrammel. 
 
 Here I pluck loose the body's cerementing, 
 And break the tomb of life; here I shake off 
 The bur o' the world, man's congregation shun, 
 And to the antique order of the dead , 
 
 [178]
 
 PAX VOBISCUM 
 
 I take the tongueless vows; my call is set 
 Here in thy bosom ; my little trouble is ended 
 In a little peace. 
 
 FRANCIS THOMPSON. 
 (An Anthem of Earth.) 
 
 [179]
 
 The Garden of God and the Soul 
 
 I DIE - TO-DAY AND 
 I LIVE TO-MORROW.
 
 t? ARISE -MY -SOUL- AND -REJOICE 
 
 And the Lord God planted a garden eastward, 
 in Eden; and there he put the man whom he 
 had formed. And out of the ground made the 
 Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to 
 the sight, and good for food. 
 
 Genesis, ch. 2, V 8-9. 
 
 If thou sit here to view this pleasant garden 
 
 place, 
 Think thus At last will come a frost and all 
 
 these flowers deface: 
 
 But if thou sit at ease to rest thy weary bones, 
 Remember death brings final rest to all our 
 
 grievous groans; 
 
 So whether for delight, or here thou sit for ease, 
 Think still upon the latter day : so shall thou 
 
 God best please. 
 
 GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 
 Lines written on a Garden Seat. 
 
 How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean 
 Are thy returns! Ev'n as the flowers in Spring, 
 
 To which besides their own demean, 
 The late-past frosts tribute of pleasure bring; 
 
 [183]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Grief melts away 
 Like snow in May, 
 As if there were no such cold thing. 
 
 Who would have thought my shrivell'd heart 
 Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone 
 
 Quite under ground; as flowers depart 
 To see their mother-root, when they have blown, 
 Where they together, 
 All the hard weather, 
 Dead to the world, keep house unknown. 
 
 These are thy wonders, Lord of power, 
 Killing and quick'ning, bringing down to Hell 
 
 And up to Heaven in an hour; 
 Making a chiming of a passing bell. 
 We say amiss 
 This or that is; 
 Thy word is all, if we could spell. 
 
 O that I once past changing were, 
 Fast in thy Paradise where no flower can wither ! 
 
 Many a Spring I shoot up fair, 
 OfFring at Heaven, growing and groaning 
 
 thither; 
 
 Nor doth my flower 
 Want a Spring shower, 
 My sins and I joining together. 
 
 [184]
 
 IN CCELO QUIES 
 
 But while I grow in a straight line, 
 Still upwards bent, as if Heaven were mine own, 
 
 Thy anger comes and I decline; 
 What frost to that? What pole is not the zone 
 Where all things burn, 
 WTien thou dost turn, 
 And the least frown of Thine is shown? 
 
 And now in age I bud again, 
 After so many deaths I live and write; 
 I once more smell the dew and rain, 
 And relish versing: O my only light! 
 It cannot be 
 That I am he 
 On whom Thy tempest befell all night. 
 
 These are Thy wonders, Lord of love, 
 To make us see we are but flowers that glide ; 
 Which when we once can find and prove, 
 Thou hast a garden for us where to bide. 
 Who would be more 
 Travelling through store, 
 Forfeit their Paradise by their pride. 
 GEORGE HERBERT. 
 
 The Flower. 
 
 [185]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Brave flowers that I could gallant it like you, 
 
 And be as little vain! 
 You come abroad, and make a harmless show, 
 
 And to your beds of earth again. 
 You are not proud: you know your birth: 
 For your embroider'd garments are from earth. 
 
 You do obey your months and times, but I 
 
 Would have it ever Spring; 
 My fate would know no Winter, never die, 
 
 Nor think of such a thing. 
 O that I could my bed of earth but view 
 And smile, and look as cheerfully as you! 
 
 O teach me to see Death and not to fear, 
 
 But rather to take truce! 
 How often have I seen you at a bier, 
 
 And there look fresh and spruce! 
 You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my 
 
 breath 
 Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death. 
 
 HENRY KING. 
 A Contemplation upon Flowers. 
 
 [i 86]
 
 FESTINA LENTE 
 
 The Garden of Eden 
 
 So on he fares, and to the border comes 
 Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, 
 Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green, 
 As with a rural mound, the champion head 
 Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides 
 With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild, 
 Access denied; and overhead up-grew 
 Insuperable highth of loftiest shade, 
 Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, 
 A sylvan scene, and, as the ranks ascend 
 Shade above shade, a woody theatre 
 Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops 
 The verdurous wall of Paradise upsprung; 
 Which to our general sire gave prospect large 
 Into his nether empire neighbouring round. 
 And higher than that wall a circling row 
 Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit, 
 Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, 
 Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed ; 
 In which the sun more glad impressed his beams 
 Than in fair Evening cloud, or humid bow, 
 When God hath showered the earth; so lovely 
 
 seemed 
 That landskip. And of pure now purer air 
 
 [187]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
 Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
 All sadness but despair. Now gentle gales 
 Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense 
 Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole 
 Prose balmy spoils. . . . 
 
 Beneath him, with new wonder, now he views, 
 
 To all delight of human sense exposed, 
 
 In narrow room Nature's whole wealth; yea, 
 
 more ! 
 
 A Heaven on Earth: for blissful Paradise 
 Of God the garden was, by him in the east 
 Of Eden planted. Eden stretched her line 
 From Auran eastward to the royal towers 
 Of great Seleucia, built by Grecian Kings, 
 Or where the sons of Eden long before 
 Dwelt in Telasser. In this pleasant soil 
 His far more pleasant garden God ordained. 
 Out of the fertile ground he caused to grow 
 All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste; 
 And all amid them stood the Tree of Life, 
 High, eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit 
 Of vegetable gold; and next to life, 
 Our death, the Tree of Knowledge, grew fast by 
 Knowledge of good, bought dear by knowing ill. 
 
 [188]
 
 LEX DEI LUX DIEI 
 
 Southward through Eden went a river large, 
 Nor changed his course, but through the shaggly 
 
 hill 
 
 Passed underneath ingulfed ; for God had thrown 
 That mountain, as his garden-mould, high raised 
 Upon the rapid current, which, through veins 
 Of porous earth with kindly thirst up-drawn, 
 Rose a fresh fountain, and with many a rill 
 Watered the garden; thence united fell 
 Down the steep glade, and met the nether flood, 
 Which from his darksome passage now appears, 
 And now, divided into four main streams, 
 Runs diverse, wandering many a famous realm 
 And country whereof here needs no account; 
 But rather to tell how, if Art could tell 
 How, from that sapphire fount the aisped brooks, 
 Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold, 
 With mazy error under pendent shades 
 Ran nectar, visiting each plant, and fed 
 Flowers worthy of Paradise, which not nice Art 
 In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon 
 Poured forth profuse on hill, and dale, and plain, 
 Both where the morning sun first warmly smote 
 The open field, and where the unpierced shade 
 Imbrowned the noontide bowers. Thus was this 
 
 place, 
 
 [189]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 A happy rural seat of various view! 
 
 Groves whose rich trees wept odorous gums and 
 
 balm; 
 
 Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind, 
 Hung amiable Hesperian fables true, 
 If true, here only and of delicious taste. 
 Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks 
 Grazing the tender herb, were interposed, 
 Or palmy hillock; or the flowery lap 
 Of some irriguous valley spread her store, 
 Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose. 
 Another side, umbrageous grots and caves 
 Of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine 
 Lays forth her purple grape, and gently weeps 
 Luxuriant; meanwhile murmuring waters fall 
 Down the slope hills dispersed, or in a lake, 
 That to the fringed bank with myrtle crowned 
 Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams. 
 The birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs, 
 Breathing the smell of field and grave, attune 
 The trembling leaves, while universal Pan, 
 Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, 
 Led on the eternal Spring. 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 Paradise Lost (Bk. IV). 
 
 [190]
 
 UMBRA DEI 
 
 In a garden man was placed, 
 
 Meet abode for innocence, 
 With his Maker's image graced; 
 
 Sin crept in and drove him thence, 
 Through the world, a wretch undone, 
 Seeking rest, and finding none. 
 
 In a garden on the night, 
 
 When our Saviour was betray'd, 
 
 With that world-redeeming might, 
 In his agony he pray'd! 
 
 Till he drank the vengeance up, 
 
 And with mercy fill'd the cup. 
 
 In a garden on the cross, 
 
 When the spear his heart had riven, 
 And for earth's primeval loss, 
 
 Heaven's best ransom had been given, 
 Jesus rested from his woes, 
 Jesus from the dead arose. 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 Garden Thoughts.
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd, 
 And the great star early droop'd in the western 
 
 sky in the night, 
 I mourn'd and yet shall mourn with ever-re- 
 
 turning spring. 
 
 O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you 
 
 bring! 
 Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in 
 
 the west, 
 And thought of him I love. 
 
 In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, 
 
 near the white-wash'd palings, 
 Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart- 
 
 shaped leaves of rich green, 
 With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, 
 
 with the perfume strong I love, 
 With every leaf a miracle . . . and from this 
 
 bush in the door-yard, 
 With delicate-color'd blossoms, and heart-shaped 
 
 leaves of rich green, 
 A sprig, with its flower, I break. 
 
 In the swamp, in secluded recesses, 
 
 A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. 
 
 [192]
 
 U THUS ETERNITY APPROACHETH U 
 
 Solitary, the thrush, 
 
 The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the 
 
 settlements, 
 Sings by himself a song. 
 
 Sing on, there in the swamp! 
 
 singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes 
 
 I hear your call; 
 
 1 hear I come presently I understand you; 
 But a moment I linger for the lustrous star has 
 
 detained me; 
 
 The star, my departing comrade, holds and de- 
 tains me. 
 
 O how shall I warble myself for the dead one 
 
 there I loved? 
 And how shall I deck my song for the large 
 
 sweet soul that has gone? 
 And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of 
 
 him I love? 
 
 Sea-winds, blown from east and west, 
 
 Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the 
 
 western sea, till there on the prairies 
 
 meeting; 
 
 [193]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 These, and with these, and the breath of my 
 
 chant, 
 I perfume the grave of him I love. 
 
 Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird! 
 
 Sing from the swamps, the recesses pour your 
 
 chant from the bushes; 
 Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and 
 
 pines. 
 
 Sing on, dearest brother, warble your reedy song; 
 Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe. 
 
 O liquid, and free, and tender! 
 
 O wild and loose to my soul ! O wondrous singer ! 
 
 You only I hear . . . yet the Star holds me 
 
 (but will soon depart;) 
 Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me. 
 
 And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me; 
 The gray-brown bird I know, receiv'd us com- 
 
 rades three; 
 And he sang what seem'd the carol of death, and 
 
 a verse for him I love. 
 
 t'94]
 
 tT UT FILII LUCIS INCEDITE U 
 
 From deep secluded recesses, 
 
 From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines 
 
 so still, 
 Came the carol of the bird. 
 
 And the charm of the carol rapt me, 
 
 As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in 
 
 the night; 
 And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of 
 
 the bird. 
 
 Passing the visions, passing the night; 
 Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' 
 
 hands; 
 Passing the song of the hermit bird, and the 
 
 tallying song of my soul, 
 
 (Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet vary- 
 ing, ever-altering song, 
 As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising 
 
 and falling, flooding the night, 
 Sadly sinking and fainting, as waning and 
 
 warning, and yet again bursting with joy, 
 Covering the earth, and filling the spread of the 
 
 heaven, 
 As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from 
 
 recesses, ) 
 
 [195]
 
 U IN PRAISE OF GARDENS tJ 
 
 Passing, I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped 
 
 leaves ; 
 I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, 
 
 returning with spring. 
 
 I cease from my song for thee; 
 
 From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the 
 
 west, communing with thee, 
 O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night. 
 
 Yet each I keep, and all, rebrievements out of 
 
 the night; 
 The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown 
 
 bird, 
 And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd in my 
 
 soul, 
 With the lustrous and drooping star, with the 
 
 countenance full of woe, 
 With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering 
 
 odor ; 
 With the holders holding my hand, nearing the 
 
 call of the bird, 
 Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their 
 
 memory ever I keep for the dead I 
 
 loved so well; 
 
 [196]
 
 IN LUCE TUA FRUAMUR LUCE 
 
 For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and 
 
 lands . . . and this for his dear sake; 
 
 Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant 
 
 of my soul, 
 
 There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk 
 and dim. 
 
 WALT WHITMAN. 
 
 Leaves of Grass. 
 
 If I could put my woods in song 
 And tell what's there enjoyed, 
 All men would to my gardens throng, 
 And leave the cities void. 
 
 In my plot no tulips blow, 
 
 Snow loving pines and oaks instead; 
 
 And rank the savage maples grow 
 
 From Spring's faint flush to Autumn red. 
 
 My garden is a forest ledge 
 
 Which older forests bound; 
 
 The banks slope down to the blue lake-edge, 
 
 Then plunge to depths profound. 
 
 [197]
 
 U IN PRAISE OF GARDENS tT 
 
 Here once the Deluge ploughed, 
 Laid the terraces one by one; 
 Ebbing later whence it flowed, 
 They bleach and dry in the sun. 
 
 The sowers made haste to depart, 
 The wind and the birds which sowed it; 
 Not for fame, nor by rules of art, 
 Planted these, and tempests flowed it. 
 
 Waters that wash my garden-side 
 Play not in Nature's lawful web, 
 They hold not moon or solartide, 
 Five years elapse from flood to ebb. 
 
 Here hasted, in old time, Jove, 
 And every god, none did refuse; 
 And be sure at last came Love, 
 And after Love, the Muse. 
 
 Keen ears can catch a syllable, 
 
 As if one spake to another, 
 
 In the hemlocks tall, untamable, 
 
 And what the whispering grasses smother. 
 
 [198]
 
 AS A SHADOW SUCH IS LIFE 
 
 /Eolian harps in the pine 
 Ring with the song of the Fates; 
 Infant Bacchus in the vine, 
 For distant yet his chorus waits. 
 
 Canst thou copy in verse one chime 
 Of the wood-bell's peal and cry, 
 Write in a book the morning's prime, 
 Or match with words that tender sky? 
 
 Wonderful verse of the gods, 
 Of one import, of varied tone; 
 They chant the bliss of their abodes 
 To man imprisoned in his own. 
 
 Ever the words of the gods resound ; 
 But the porches of man's ear 
 Seldom in this low life's round 
 Are unsealed, that he may hear. 
 
 Wandering voices in the air 
 And murmurs in the wold 
 Speak what I cannot declare, 
 Yet cannot all withhold.
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 When the shadow fell on the lake, 
 The whirlwind in ripples wrote 
 Air-bells of fortune that shine and break, 
 And omens above thought. 
 
 But the meanings cleave to the lake, 
 Cannot be carried in book or urn ; 
 Go thy ways now, come later back, 
 On waves and hedges still they burn. 
 
 These the fates of men forecast, 
 Of better men than live to-day; 
 If who can read them comes at last 
 He will spell in the sculpture, " Stay." 
 R. W. EMERSON. 
 
 My Garden. 
 
 A Ballad of White Maidens 
 
 As I walked in the moonlight, a garden I found 
 By strange sorcery wrought all about and 
 
 around ; 
 When the voices are muffled, the vistas are 
 
 blurr'd, 
 
 [200]
 
 DUM VIVIMUS VIVAMUS 
 
 Dense incense makes faint the indicible word, 
 Folding round broider'd vestments and far flash- 
 
 ing gems 
 
 Of pontiff's tiaras and kings diadems. 
 The cups of the tall-springing lilies confuse 
 With white maidens' faces moist-eyed, while the 
 
 dews 
 Shine ghostlike and pallid on mist-breathing 
 
 grass, 
 Where pearl-sprinkled sandals fall light as they 
 
 pass ; 
 
 The maid's trailing garments glide over and raise 
 Such light stir as June in her slumberous days 
 Permits to low zephyrs with pauses between 
 Lest they wanton too long with the leaf's silver 
 
 sheen ; 
 
 The cooing dove murmurs in languorous elms 
 Of the dream and the dreamer in reverie's 
 
 realms. 
 
 O willow-sweet maidens! What maidens are 
 
 these, 
 Curd-white in the moonlight and honey-lipp'd 
 
 breeze ? 
 
 Old voices grow faint, from the summit they fall, 
 Your measures enchant me, I come at your call. 
 
 [20i]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 faint grow the tocsin, the trumpet, the drum! 
 Enswathe me, enfold me ; white maidens, I come ! 
 
 Ah, stay me with lilies, sweet press of your faces, 
 The nearness and warmth of your mystic em- 
 
 braces, 
 
 Dissolving the lonely inviolate state 
 Which I shared with the dwellers outside of 
 
 your gate! 
 By a superincession fantastical, sweet, 
 
 1 am merged in the maids of this shadow'd re- 
 
 treat ; 
 
 They are I, I am they, neither many nor one, 
 As the light and the warmth from the fount of 
 
 the sun. 
 
 Within the charm'd walls is a place of delight, 
 And a world from its windows shines strange to 
 
 the sight, 
 
 With the pomp of the night and the glory of day 
 Where the long golden prospects stretch shining 
 
 away. 
 
 With pennons and banners the pageants pass by, 
 And the crash of their music goes up to the sky; 
 The centre and shrine is the paradise fair 
 And crown'd 'midst his maidens the monarch is 
 
 there. 
 
 [202]
 
 LIGHT IS THE PARENT OF LIFE U 
 
 O wrapp'd all about by the ministry blest 
 And the intimate sense of the garden of rest, 
 How vague are the legends, the memories dim 
 Of the King's distant country surviving for him ! 
 But a hint in the stars, but a voice in the wind, 
 An echo of canticles lost to the mind, 
 Welling up from the depths in the sea's organ 
 
 voice, 
 Bear witness how far he has err'd in his choice. 
 
 In the garden are stairways and turrets and 
 
 towers ; 
 'Twas spring when He enter'd, and sweet were 
 
 the flowers; 
 The maidens sang ballads, how blithe to the 
 
 heart ! 
 
 All bells rang the nuptials of Nature and Art, 
 And the world to the walls in high carnival came, 
 Bright eyes full of rapture, bright faces aflame; 
 But what of that moaning when music is still'd? 
 That ache in the pause which no pageant has 
 
 fill'd? 
 
 The garden has hill-tops, the stars live above; 
 It is summertide now and the world is all love; 
 The maids in full chorus sing jubilant odes, 
 A glory abides in the vistas and roads. 
 
 [203]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 O high the emprizes and high the renown, 
 And the King hath his maidens, the King hath 
 
 his crown ! 
 But what of the whispers which hint in his 
 
 sleep ? 
 Do hearts never sorrow? Do eyes never weep? 
 
 The garden has sycamores stately and old; 
 
 O the time is rich autumn, the leaves are all 
 
 gold, 
 Round maids in the moonlight, high-seeming and 
 
 soft, 
 
 But a mist looking mournful envelops them oft; 
 With a voice full of loss falls the wave on the 
 
 strand ; 
 Lone horsemen ride hurriedly far through the 
 
 land; 
 Cold sleet against windows beats heavy and 
 
 drives 
 On the overblown blooms and the bees' ravish'd 
 
 hives. 
 
 All voice in that garden dies down in a dirge, 
 And the King hath his sorrow to crown him 
 
 and scourge. 
 Far, far through the windows his vision is 
 
 strain'd, 
 
 [204]
 
 tT I STAND ON EARTH t!T 
 
 The young have grown old, and the old have 
 
 not gain'd 
 
 Save in sense of illusion and measureless loss; 
 As the weary wayfarer goes dragging his cross 
 O'er the stones of the road to the hills out of 
 
 reach, 
 
 Where storms utter faintly their ominous speech ; 
 'Mid the ghosts of the maidens, ah, vain let him 
 
 roam, 
 And remember at last how he stray'd from his 
 
 home! 
 
 Deep frost in the garden, the maidens are dead, 
 The King is a-cold with the snows on his head ; 
 Through the rime on the windows forth-looking 
 
 sees he 
 The dearth and the dark where the glory should 
 
 be. 
 
 Where now are the stars and the altitude keen, 
 All the music of old in the shining demesne, 
 The fellowship lofty reserved to adorn 
 That secret pageant and state inborn? 
 The heart cannot dream it though hearts may 
 
 yearn, 
 
 Nor the way of attainment the eye discern, 
 But the King in the garden, of all bereft, 
 
 [205]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Knows that which was priceless for this was left, 
 
 For a paradise fated with time to end, 
 
 The place of the Vision whence Kings descend; 
 
 And over the desolate, lonely road 
 
 Dim eyes put forth from his waste abode, 
 
 To watch for a herald with tidings sent 
 
 From the land withdrawn of the soul's content, 
 
 For a beacon speaking the darkness through 
 
 Of the light beyond and the further blue, 
 
 Past all sea-cries for a distant tone 
 
 From the royal realm which was once his own. 
 
 When will it come to him? Comes it now? 
 Falls there a gleam on his clouded brow? 
 The wasting garden is moist and wan, 
 Far has the King of the Garden gone! 
 Whither he travels and what may chance 
 Whether restored from the life-long trance, 
 Whether to tarry in exile far 
 Where other illusive gardens are 
 Who shall acquaint us? He that knows 
 The one true place for a King's repose, 
 And, long though he travel the outward track, 
 That the King came forth and the King goes 
 back. ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE. 
 (A Book of Mystery and Vision.} 
 
 [206]
 
 TIME THE FATHER OF TRUTH 
 
 Jam Noli Tardare 
 
 Undeterminted starry spaces, 
 
 Fill with joy your paths unknown! 
 
 But to watch the inward graces 
 Needs the inward sight alone; 
 
 Meanest places hold the spell 
 
 Of unfathomed miracle. 
 
 Hence when any hour invites you, 
 Whether seemly eve's repose, 
 
 Or, if better this delights you, 
 
 Night august or hush'd moon-close; 
 
 Best when best your charm is found 
 
 Pass into your garden ground. 
 
 There a sadden sense supernal 
 On the mind prepared shall fall, 
 
 As of haunted thought eternal 
 And great strangeness vesting all; 
 
 Grass and glebe and grave expound 
 
 Thin veil'd secrets latent round. 
 
 Not in bowers of roses solely 
 Shall the wondrous tale be told, 
 
 [207]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 But plantations meek and lowly, 
 
 Beds of burning marigold; 
 Yet betwixt the lilies straight 
 Swings the visionary gate. 
 
 Not devoid of dream if blended 
 Are the windflowers and the docks, 
 
 For myself I love a splendid 
 Place of purple hollyhocks, 
 
 And my fancy knows the powers 
 
 Which lie rich in the sunflowers. 
 
 I could set you in my closes, 
 With the seeing sense endow'd, 
 
 Where the weed is as the rose is, 
 And the bird's lilt, low or loud, 
 
 Outward voices, clear and strong, 
 
 Worlds of rapture, worlds of song. 
 
 But for you a place of wonder 
 
 Your own garden ground must be; 
 
 'Twixt the trees that you stand under, 
 Seeing what is yours to see, 
 
 In my garden seen aright 
 
 All is scarlet and white light. 
 
 
 
 [208]
 
 MAN PROPOSES GOD DISPOSES 
 
 White the Word of Words reposes 
 
 Far beyond the lip's control, 
 Till the fitting time discloses, 
 
 In the garden of the soul, 
 Let us dreamers day by day 
 In the outward gardens pray. 
 
 ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE. 
 A Book of Mystery and Vision. 
 
 I know, 
 
 When the shadows lie so rich, so slant, so long 
 Over the close-cropp'd lawn which else is 
 
 white with dew, 
 
 Where the misty vistas shine, and the wind- 
 ing path go through 
 To thickets beyond the garden ground and a 
 
 secret bird in song; 
 
 The darkling orbs of the sunflowers, splen- 
 didly tall, 
 Droop in the moon-mist nimbus, dim with 
 
 a hollowing tinge, 
 
 While from their palm-like leaves the thick 
 dews trickle and fall, 
 
 [209]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 And the musk-rich scents of the garden rise 
 To the overshadowing fringe 
 Of their gorgeous golden eyes. 
 
 I know, 
 
 When at last the uttermost stillness steeps 
 Rose and lily, and laurel and lilac hedge; 
 The leaf does not stir on the willow, nor the 
 
 leaf where the ash-tree weeps, 
 The topmost twig of the yew and the cypress 
 
 sleeps 
 
 Like the box of the garden edge; 
 When great, divine, serene, 
 Flowing from vales beyond, and yet beyond 
 
 from the hills, 
 
 The sense magnetic of expectation fills 
 The palaces sacramental and high-roof'd halls 
 In the haunted place of incense, the wondrous 
 
 place 
 
 Earth and its crown between, 
 With an unvoiced solemn promise of bound- 
 
 less grace, 
 As over the East's red ramparts, gateways and 
 
 cloudy walls, 
 
 And over a thousand changeful turrets and 
 towers, 
 
 [210]
 
 THY DAYS PASS 
 
 The morning glory of heaven blooms over and 
 
 calls 
 
 The morning glories of earth in a thousand 
 bowers. 
 
 ARTHUR EDWARD WAITE. 
 A Book of Mystery and Vision. 
 
 Vly Garden 
 
 A Garden is a lovesome thing, God wot! 
 
 Rose plot, 
 
 Fringed pool, 
 
 Ferned grot 
 
 The veriest school 
 
 Of peace; and yet the fool 
 
 Contends that God is not 
 
 Not God ! in gardens ! when the eve is cool ! 
 
 Nay, but I have a sign; 
 
 'Tis very sure God walks in mine. 
 
 T. E. BROWN. 
 
 [211]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 A garden shut up is my sister, my bride, 
 
 A spring shut up, 
 
 A fountain sealed. 
 Thy shoots are an orchard of pomegranates, 
 
 With precious fruits; 
 Henna with spikenard plants, 
 
 Spikenard and saffron, 
 
 Calamus and cinnamon, with all trees of frank- 
 incense, 
 
 Myrrh and aloes, with all the chief spices. 
 Thou art a fountain of gardens, 
 
 A well of living waters, 
 
 And flowing streams from Lebanon. 
 
 Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; 
 
 Blow upon my garden, 
 
 That the spices thereof may flow out. 
 Let my beloved come into his garden, 
 
 And eat his precious fruits. 
 
 I am come into my garden, my sister, my bride ; 
 I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; 
 I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey; 
 I have drunk my wine with my milk. 
 
 
 
 [212]
 
 OUR TIMES AT HAND 
 
 My beloved is gone down to his garden, 
 
 To the bed of spices, 
 To feed in the gardens, 
 
 And to gather lilies. 
 
 I went down into the garden of nuts, 
 To see the green plants of the valley, 
 
 To see whether the vine budded, 
 
 And the pomegranates were in flower. 
 
 Or ever I was aware, my soul set me 
 
 Among the chariots of my princely people. 
 Solomon's Song of Songs. 
 
 The Bower 
 
 From the place I stood in, floated 
 Back the covert din and close, 
 And the open ground was coated 
 Carpet-smooth with grass and moss, 
 And the blue-bells' purple presence signed 
 worthily across. 
 
 Here a linden-tree stood, bright'ning 
 All adown its silver rind; 
 
 [213]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 For as some trees draw the lightning, 
 So this tree, unto my mind, 
 Drew to earth the blessed sunshine from the sky 
 where it was shrined. 
 
 Tall the linden-tree and near it, 
 An old hawthorn also grew; 
 And wood-ivy like a spirit 
 Hovered dimly round the two, 
 Shaping thence that bower of beauty which I 
 sing of thus to you. 
 
 'Twas a bower for garden fitter 
 Than for any woodland wide; 
 Though a fresh and dewy glitter 
 Struck it through from side to side, 
 Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by gar- 
 den-cunning plied. 
 
 Oh, a lady might have come there, 
 Hooded fairly like her hawk, 
 With a book or lute in summer, 
 And a hope of sweeter talk, 
 Listening less to her own music than for foot- 
 steps on the walk! 
 
 [214]
 
 tT EITHER LEARN OR GO tT 
 
 But that bower appeared a marvel 
 In the wildness of the place; 
 With such seeming art and travail, 
 Dimly fixed and filled was 
 Leaf to leaf, the dark green ivy, to the summit 
 from the base. 
 
 And the ivy veined and glossy 
 Was enwrought with eglantine; 
 And like wild hop fibred closely, 
 And the large-leaved columbine, 
 Arch of door and window-mullion, did right 
 sylvanly entwine. 
 
 Rose-tree either side the door were 
 Growing lithe and growing tall, 
 Each one set a summer warder 
 For the keeping of the hall, 
 With a red rose and a white rose, leaning, nod- 
 ding at the wall. 
 
 As I entered, mosses hushing 
 Stole all noises from my foot; 
 And a green elastic cushion, 
 
 [215]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Clasped within the linden's root, 
 Took me in a chair of silence very rare and ab- 
 solute. 
 
 All the floor was paved with glory, 
 Greenily, silently inlaid 
 (Through quick motions made before me) 
 With fair counterparts in shade 
 Of the fair serrated ivy-leaves which slanted 
 overhead. 
 
 " Is such pavement in a palace? " 
 So I questioned in my thought: 
 The sun, shining through the chalice 
 Of the red rose hung without, 
 Threw within a red libation, like an answer to 
 my doubt. 
 
 At the same time, on the linen 
 Of my childish lap there fell 
 Two white May-leaves, downward winning 
 Through the ceiling's miracle, 
 From a blossom, like an angel, but of sight yet 
 blessing well. 
 
 [216]
 
 tT NEVER -TO-BE RECALLED tT 
 
 Down to floor and up to ceiling 
 Quick I turned my childish face, 
 With an innocent appealing 
 For the secret of the place, 
 
 To the trees which surely knew it in partaking 
 of the grace. 
 
 Where's no foot of human creature 
 How could reach a human hand? 
 And if this be work of Nature, 
 Why has Nature, turned so bland, 
 Breaking off from other wild work? It was 
 hard to understand. 
 
 Was she weary of rough-doing, 
 Of the bramble and the thorn? 
 Did she pause in tender rueing 
 Her of all her sylvan scorn? 
 Or in mock of Art's deceiving was the sudden 
 mildness worn? 
 
 Or could this same bower (I fancied) 
 Be the work of Dryad strong, 
 Who, surviving all that chanced 
 
 [217]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 In the world's pagan wrong, 
 Lay hid, feeding in the woodland on the last 
 true poet's song? 
 
 Or was this the house of fairies, 
 Left, because of the rough ways, 
 Unassailed by Ave Marys 
 Which the passing pilgrim prays, 
 And beyond St. Catherine's chiming on the 
 blessed Sabbath days? 
 
 Oh, the golden-hearted daisies 
 Witnessed there, before my youth, 
 To the truth of things, with praises 
 Of the beauty of the truth; 
 And I awoke to Nature's real, laughing joyfully 
 for both. 
 
 And I said within me, laughing, 
 I have found a bower to-day, 
 A green lusus, fashioned half in 
 Chance and half in Nature's play, 
 And a little bird sings nigh it, I will never more 
 mis-say. 
 
 [218]
 
 AS THE SHADE IS SO IS LIFE 
 
 Henceforth, I will be the fairy, 
 Of this bower not built by one ; 
 I will go then, sad or merry, 
 With each morning's benison, 
 And the bird shall be my harper in the dream- 
 hall I have won. 
 
 By this couch I weakly lie on, 
 While I count my memories, 
 Through the fingers which, still sighing, 
 I press closely on mine eyes, 
 Clear as once beneath the sunshine, I beheld the 
 bower arise. 
 
 Springs the linden-tree as greenly, 
 Stroked with light adown its rind; 
 And the ivy-leaves serenely 
 Each in either intertwined; 
 And the rose trees at the doorway, they have 
 neither grown nor pined. 
 
 From those overblown faint roses 
 Not a leaf appeareth shed, 
 And that little bud discloses 
 
 [219]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Not a thorn's-breadth more of red, 
 For the winters and the summers which have 
 passed me overhead. 
 
 And that music overfloweth, 
 Sudden sweet, the sylvan eaves: 
 Thrush or nightingale who knoweth? 
 Fay or faunus who believes? 
 But my heart still trembles in me to the trem- 
 bling of the leaves. 
 
 Is the bower lost then? who sayeth 
 That the bower indeed is lost? 
 Hark! my spirit in it prayeth 
 Through the sunshine and the frost, 
 And the prayer preserves it greenly, to the last 
 and uttermost. 
 
 E. B. BROWNING. 
 
 The Lost Bower. 
 
 [220]
 
 TIME BRINGS TRUTH TO LIGHT 
 
 The Trees of the Garden 
 
 Ye who have passed Death's haggard hills; and 
 
 ye 
 Whom trees that knew your sires shall cease 
 
 to know 
 
 And still stand silent: is it all a show 
 A wisp that laughs upon the wall ? decree 
 Of some inexorable supremacy 
 
 Which ever, as man strains his blind surmise 
 From depth to ominous depth, looks past his 
 
 eyes, 
 Sphinx- faced with unabashed augury? 
 
 Nay, rather question the Earth's self. Invoke 
 The storm-felled forest trees moss-grown to- 
 day 
 Whose roots are hillocks where the children 
 
 play; 
 
 Or ask the silver sapling 'neath what yoke 
 Those stars, his spray-crown's clustering 
 
 gems, shall wage 
 Their journey still when his boughs shrink 
 
 with age. ~ 
 
 D. G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 (The House of Life.) 
 [221]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS U 
 
 A Forsaken Garden 
 
 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 inward 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. 
 
 Not a flower to be prest at the foot that falls not ; 
 As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are 
 
 dry; 
 
 From the thicket of thorns whence the night- 
 ingale calls not, 
 Could she call, there were never a rose to 
 
 reply. 
 
 Over the meadows that blossom and wither, 
 Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song. 
 Only the sun and the rain come hither 
 All year long. 
 
 [222]
 
 PAX OPTIMA RERUM 
 
 The sun burns scar and the rain dishevels 
 
 One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. 
 Only the wind here hovers and revels 
 
 In a round where life seems barren as death. 
 Here there was laughing of old, there was weep- 
 ing, 
 
 Haply, of lovers none ever will know, 
 Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping 
 
 Years ago. 
 
 All are at one now, roses and lovers, 
 
 Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the 
 
 sea. 
 
 Not a breath of the time that has been hovers 
 In the air now soft with a summer to be. 
 Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons 
 
 hereafter 
 Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now 
 
 or weep, 
 When as they that are free now of weeping and 
 
 laughter 
 We shall sleep. 
 
 A. C. SWINBURNE. 
 (Poems and Ballads.) 
 
 [223]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Paradise 
 
 Once in a dream I saw the flowers 
 
 That bud and bloom in Paradise; 
 
 More fair they are than waking eyes 
 Have seen in all this world of ours, 
 And faint the perfume bearing rose, 
 
 And faint the lily on its stem, 
 And faint the perfect violet, 
 
 Compared with them. 
 
 I heard the songs of Paradise; 
 
 Each bird sat singing in its place; 
 
 A tender song so full of grace 
 It soared like incense to the skies. 
 Each bird sat singing to its mate 
 
 Soft cooing notes among the trees: 
 The nightingale herself were cold 
 
 To such as these. 
 
 I saw the fourfold River flow, 
 
 And deep it was, with golden sand; 
 It flowed between a mossy land 
 
 With murmured music grave and low. 
 
 [224]
 
 MAKE HASTE SLOWLY 
 
 It hath refreshment for all thirst, 
 
 For fainting spirit strength and rest; 
 
 Earth holds not such a draught as this 
 From east to west. 
 
 The Tree of Life stood budding there, 
 
 Abundant with its twelvefold fruits; 
 
 Eternal sap sustains its roots, 
 Its shadowing branches fill the air. 
 Its leavings are healing for the world, 
 
 Its fruit the hungry world can feed, 
 Sweeter than honey to the taste 
 
 And balm indeed. 
 
 I saw the Gate called Beautiful; 
 
 And looked, but scarce could look within; 
 
 I saw the golden streets begin, 
 And outskirts of the glassy pool. 
 Oh harps, oh crowns of plenteous stars, 
 
 Oh green palm branches, many-leaved 
 Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard, 
 
 Nor heart conceived. 
 
 I hope to see these things again, 
 But not as once in dreams by night; 
 
 [225]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 To see them with my very sight, 
 And touch and handle and attain: 
 To have all heaven beneath my feet 
 
 For narrow way that once they trod; 
 To have my part with all the saints, 
 
 And with my God. 
 
 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. 
 
 Garden Fairies 
 
 Keen was the air, the sky was very light, 
 
 Soft with shed snow my garden was, and white, 
 
 And walking there, I heard upon the night 
 
 Sudden sound of little voices, 
 
 Just the prettiest of noises. 
 
 It was the strangest, subtlest, sweetest sound: 
 It seem'd above me, seem'd upon the ground. 
 Then swiftly seem'd to eddy round and round, 
 
 Till I said : " To-night the air is 
 
 Surely full of garden fairies." 
 
 And all at once it seem'd I grew aware 
 That little, shining presences were there, 
 
 [226]
 
 U I SET TO RISE AGAIN U 
 
 White shapes and red shapes danced upon the air ; 
 Then a peal of silver laughter, 
 And such singing followed after. 
 
 As none of you, I think, has ever heard. 
 More soft it was than call of any bird. 
 Note after note, exquisitely deferr'd, 
 
 Soft as dew drops when they settle 
 
 In a fair flower's open petal. 
 
 "What are these fairies?" to myself I said; 
 For answer, then, as from a garden's bed, 
 On the cold air a sudden scent was shed, 
 Scent of lilies, scent of roses, 
 Scent of summer's sweetest posies. 
 
 And said a small, sweet voice within my ear: 
 " We flowers, that sleep through winter, once 
 
 a year 
 
 Are by our flower queen sent to visit here, 
 That this fact may duly flout us, 
 Gardens can look fair without us. 
 
 " A very little time we have to play, 
 Then must we go, oh, very far away, 
 
 [227]
 
 U IN PRAISE OF GARDENS U 
 
 And sleep again for many a long, long day, 
 Till the glad birds sing above us, 
 And the warm sun comes to love us. 
 
 " Hark, what the roses sing now, as we go " ; 
 Then very sweet and soft, and very low, 
 A dream of sound across the garden snow, 
 
 Come the chime of roses singing 
 
 To the lily-bells' faint ringing. 
 
 ROSE s SONG 
 
 " Softly sinking through the snow, 
 To our winter rest we go, 
 Underneath the snow to house 
 Till the birds be in the boughs, 
 And the boughs with leaves be fair, 
 And the sunshine everywhere. 
 Softly through the snow we settle, 
 Little snow drops press each petal. 
 Oh, the snow is kind and white, 
 Soft it is, and very light; 
 Soon we shall be where no light is, 
 But where sleep is, and where night is,- 
 
 [228]
 
 I MOVE AND WARN 
 
 Sleep of every kind unshaken, 
 Till our summer bids us waken." 
 
 Then toward some far-off goal that singing 
 
 drew; 
 
 Then altogether cried ; more steely blue 
 The blue star shone; but in my spirit grew 
 Hope of Summer, love of Roses, 
 Certainty that Sorrow closes. 
 
 PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 
 
 To a Garden 
 
 Oh, happy Eden! where I roam'd of yore 
 In that sweet innocence I long for now, 
 No childish innocence of fruited bough, 
 
 For I had bit my apple to the core, 
 
 But when the golden fruit seem'd doubly sweet, 
 (Unlike the tempter of a bygone day), 
 A serpent came, and bade me fling away 
 
 What once he bade those first poor lovers eat. 
 
 [229]
 
 IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 
 
 Oh, had I never bent that magic bough, 
 And tasted of the sweetness that it bore, 
 My heart had been as careless as before, 
 
 And all these bitter tears unfailing now! 
 
 I curse the cruel hand that pointed where 
 My golden apple show'd a bitter flaw, 
 And his malignant eye, who smiled and saw 
 
 My best illusions melting into air! 
 
 But garden garden where I used to rove, 
 I bless thy orange groves and sunny sky, 
 I bless thy feath'ry palm trees tow'ring high, 
 
 That overshadow'd what seem'd then my love! 
 
 VIOLET FANE. 
 
 LET OTHERS TELL OF STORMS AND 
 
 SHOWERS 
 I'LL ONLY - COUNT YOUR SUNNY HOURS 
 
 [230]
 
 INDEX 
 
 Across the Convent garden walls (Mathilde Blind), 
 
 159- 
 
 Across my Garden! and the thicket stirs (Tenny- 
 son), 119. 
 
 A Garden bower'd close (Tennyson), 171. 
 A Garden shut up is my sister, my bride (The Bible 
 
 Song of Songs), 213. 
 A Garden Song (Austin Dobson), 177. 
 Akerman (William), Dost thou remember how one 
 
 morn of Spring, 100. 
 Akerman (William), The Garden walks are wet 
 
 with dew, 137. 
 
 An Autumn Garden (Bliss Carman), 143. 
 And the Lord God Planted a Garden (The Bible), 
 
 183. 
 
 An Eastern City's Garden (Tennyson), 158. 
 An October Garden (P. B. Marston), 175. 
 Anonymous, If they to whom God gives fair gardens 
 
 knew, 36. 
 Anonymous, The bee through flowery gardens goes, 
 
 46. 
 
 Anonymous, Void Notre Heure, 65. 
 Autumn Tints (Mathilde Blind), 137. 
 
 Ballad of White Maidens (A. E. Waite), 200. 
 Bee, The, Through flowery gardens goes, 46. 
 
 [231]
 
 INDEX 
 
 Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers (Brown- 
 ing Sonnets from the Portuguese), 81. 
 Benson (A. C.), In a College Garden, 162. 
 Bible, And the Lord Planted a Garden, 183. 
 Blind (Mathilde), A Garden in Spring, 58. 
 
 Autumn Tints, 137. 
 
 Across the Convent Garden Walls, 159. 
 
 He passed the garden where, snow-white and 
 
 red, 1 60. 
 
 I planted a rose-tree in my garden, 160. 
 
 In a Kentish Rose Garden, 176. 
 
 Bosworth (W.), Love in the Garden, 76. 
 
 Bower, The Lost (E. B. Browning), 213. 
 
 Bridges (Robert), The Garden in September, 134. 
 
 The pinks along my garden walks, 136. 
 
 Brown (T. E.), My Garden, 211. 
 
 Browning (E. B.), Beloved, thou hast brought me 
 
 many flowers (Sonnets from the Portuguese), 81. 
 Hector in the Garden, 120. 
 
 The Lost Bower, 213. 
 
 Browning (R.) The Flower's Name (Garden Fan- 
 cies), 82. 
 But I know where a Garden Grows (Tennyson), 159. 
 
 Campion (Thomas), Cherry Ripe, 75. 
 Carman (Bliss), An Autumn Garden, 143. 
 Cavendish, My Garden sweet, enclosed with walles 
 
 strong, 36. 
 Chaucer (Geoffrey), The Franklin's Tale, 24. 
 
 The Romaunt of the Rose, 25. 
 
 The Parlement of Foules, 29. 
 
 [232]
 
 INDEX 
 
 Chaucer (Geoffrey), The Merchant's Tale, 67. 
 
 When almost ended was the month of May, 
 
 167. 
 
 Cherry Ripe (Campion), 75. 
 Chorl and the Birde, The (John Lydgate), 107. 
 Come into the Garden, Maud! (Tennyson), 85. 
 Contemplation upon Flowers (Henry King), 186. 
 Cook (Eliza), Early Influence of Gardens remains 
 
 Always, 122. 
 
 Corymbus for Autumn, A (Francis Thompson), 59. 
 Cowley (A.), Underneath this myrtle shade, 43. 
 
 The Wish, 44. 
 
 Spring in a Garden, 78. 
 
 A Wish, 109. 
 
 Cowper (William), The Garden, 113. 
 Custance (Olive), The Parting Hour, 100. 
 
 Dobson (Austin), A Song of Angiola in Heaven, 56. 
 
 A Garden Song, 177. 
 
 Dost thou remember how one morn of Spring (W. 
 
 Akerman), 100. 
 Dowson (Ernest), The Garden of Shadow, 97. 
 
 Yvonne of Brittany, 98. 
 
 Early Influence of Gardens remains Always (Eliza 
 
 Cook), 122. 
 Emerson (R. W.), My Garden, 197. 
 
 Faerie Queene, The (Book II, Canto xii), (E. Spen- 
 ser), 31. 
 Fane (Violet), Love in a Garden, 94. 
 
 [233]
 
 INDEX 
 
 Fane (Violet), In Green Old Gardens, 171. 
 
 To a Garden, 229. 
 
 Farewell, A (W. Wordsworth), 117. 
 FitzGerald (Edward), In a Persian Garden, 53. 
 Flos Florum (George Wither), 36. 
 
 Flower Garden, A (Wordsworth), 167. 
 
 Flower, The (George Herbert), 184. 
 
 Flower's Name, The (Browning Garden Fancies'), 
 
 82. 
 
 Franklin's Tale, The (Chaucer), 24. 
 From House to Home (C. G. Rossetti), 133. 
 Fugitive Glory, The (Neihardt), 61. 
 
 Garden of Flowers, A (James Thomson), 112. 
 Garden, The (Marvell), 40. 
 
 (William Cowper), 113. 
 
 (Alexander Pope), 115. 
 
 Garden in September, The (R. Bridges), 134. 
 Garden, The, walks are wet with dew (Akerman), 
 
 137- 
 
 Garden Faeries (P. B. Marston), 226. 
 Garden of Adonis, The (Spenser), 69. 
 Garden Lyric (F. Locker), 92. 
 Garden of Alcinoiis, The (Homer), 23. 
 Garden of Eden (John Milton), 187. 
 Garden of Prosperina, The (Spenser), 67. 
 Garden of Shadow (Ernest Dowson), 97. 
 Garden in Spring (Mathilde Blind), 58. 
 Garden Thoughts (James Montgomery), 191. 
 Gascoigne (George), Lines written on a Garden Seat, 
 
 it* 
 
 [234]
 
 INDEX 
 
 Gilbert (W. S.), Only Roses, 161. 
 
 Grecian Garden, A (Theocritus Lang), 66. 
 
 Groves of Blarney, The (Milliken), 49. 
 
 Happy Swain, The (Philips), 46. 
 
 Hark! Hark! the lark at Heaven's gate sings, 34. 
 
 Hector in the Garden (E. B. Browning), 120. 
 
 He passed the garden where, snow-white and red 
 
 (Mathilde Blind), 160. 
 Herbert (George), The Flower, 184. 
 Homer, The Garden of Alcinoiis (The Odyssey, Book 
 
 VII), 23. 
 Hope (Laurence), The Orange Garden, 102. 
 
 If they to whom God gives fair gardens knew, 36. 
 I have a Garden of my own (Thomas Moore), 148. 
 I know, where the shadows lie so rich (A. E. Waite), 
 
 209. 
 
 llle Terrarum (R. L. Stevenson), 124. 
 In a Bower (A. O'Shaughnessy), 90. 
 In a College Garden (A. C. Benson), 162. 
 In Eastern Lands they talk in flowers (Percival), 91. 
 In a Kentish Rose Garden (Mathilde Blind), 176. 
 In a Persian Garden (FitzGerald), 53. 
 In Green Old Gardens (Violet Fane), 171. 
 In Springtime (R. Kipling), 140. 
 I planted a rose-tree in my garden (Mathilde Blind), 
 
 1 60. 
 
 Jam Noli Tardare (A. E. Waite), 207. 
 
 January and May (Pope), 81. 
 
 Jonson (Ben), The Shepherd's Holyday, 35. 
 
 [235]
 
 INDEX 
 
 King (Henry), A Contemplation upon Flowers, 186. 
 Kipling (Rudyard), In Springtime, 140. 
 
 Lang (Andrew), A Song of Phaacia, 54. 
 
 One Flower, 95. 
 
 Lines written on a Garden Seat (G. Gascoigne), 183. 
 Little, The, Window looks upon the East (Stuart- 
 
 Mentieth), 138. 
 
 Locker (Frederick), A Garden Lyric, 92. 
 Love in a Garden (Violet Fane), 94. 
 Love in the Garden (Bosworth), 76. 
 Lydgate (John), The Chorl and the Birde, 107. 
 
 Marston (Philip Bourke), An October Garden, 175. 
 
 Garden Faeries, 226. 
 
 Marvell (Andrew), The Nymph Complaining for the 
 Death of Her Fawn, 39. 
 
 The Garden, 40. 
 
 The Mower against Gardens, no. 
 
 Merchant's Tale, The (Chaucer), 67. 
 
 Meynell (Alice), My Heart Shall be thy Garden, 96. 
 Midges Dance Aboon the Burn, The (Tannahill), 48. 
 Milliken (R. A.), The Groves of Blarney, 49. 
 Milton (John), The Garden of Eden, 187. 
 Montgomery (James), Garden Thoughts, 191. 
 Moore (Thomas), I have a Garden of ray own, 148. 
 Morris (William), The Nymph's Song to Hylas, 89. 
 Moss-Rose, The (Henry Newbolt), 163. 
 Mower against Gardens, The (A. Marvell), no. 
 My Garden (Emerson), 197. 
 My Garden (T. E. Brown), 211. 
 
 [236]
 
 INDEX 
 
 My Garden Sweet, enclosed with walles strong 
 
 (Chaucer), 36. 
 My Heart Shall be thy Garden (Alice Meynell), 96. 
 
 Neihardt (J. G.), The Fugitive Glory, 61. 
 
 Newbolt (Henry), The Moss-Rose, 163. 
 
 Night and Day (R. L. Stevenson), 131. 
 
 Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite (Tennyson), 
 
 170. 
 
 November's sky is chill and drear (Scott), 119. 
 Nymph Complaining for the Death of Her Fawn (A. 
 
 Marvell), 39. 
 Nymph's Song to Hylas (W. Morris), 89. 
 
 Omar Khayyam, In a Persian Garden (FitzGerald), 
 
 S3- 
 
 One Flower (Andrew Lang), 95. 
 Only Roses (W. S. Gilbert), 161. 
 Orange Garden, The (Laurence Hope), 102. 
 O'Shaughnessy (A.), In a Bower, 90. 
 
 Paradise (C. G. Rossetti), 224. 
 
 Parlement of Foules (Chaucer), 29. 
 
 Parting Hour, The (Olive Custance), 100. 
 
 Percival, In Eastern Lands they talk in flowers, 91. 
 
 Philips (A.), The Happy Swain, 46. 
 
 Pinks, The, along my garden walks (R. Bridges), 136. 
 
 Pope (A.), January and May, 81. 
 
 The Garden, 115. 
 
 The Tasteless Garden, 147. 
 
 [237]
 
 jy INDEX 
 
 Romaunt of the Rose, The (Chaucer), 25. 
 Rossetti (D. G.), The Trees of the Garden, 221. 
 Rossetti (C. G.), From House to Home, 133. 
 
 Shut Out, 171. 
 
 Paradise, 224. 
 
 Ruines of Time, The (Spenser), 30. 
 
 Scott (Sir. W.), November's sky is chill and drear, 
 
 (Marmion), 119. 
 
 Sensitive Plant, The (P. B. Shelley), 153. 
 Shakespeare (W.), Where the Bee Sucks, 33. 
 
 Hark, Hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
 
 34- 
 
 Under the Greenwood Tree, 34. 
 
 Shelley (P. B.), The Sensitive Plant, 153. 
 
 Shepherd's Holy day, The, 35. 
 
 Shut Out (C. G. Rossetti), 173. 
 
 Solomon (King), A garden shut up is my sister, my 
 
 bride, 213. 
 
 Song of Angiola in Heaven (A. Dobson), 56. 
 Song of Phaacia (Andrew Lang), 54. 
 So white with frost my garden lies (R. M. Watson), 
 
 142. 
 Spenser (Edmund), The Ruines of Time, 30. 
 
 The Faerie Queene (Book II, Canto xii), 31. 
 
 The Garden of Proserpina (Faerie Queene), 
 
 67. 
 
 The Garden of Adonis (Faerie Queene), 69. 
 
 To the gay gardins his unstaid desire (Muio- 
 
 potmos), 107. 
 Spring in a Garden (Cowley), 78. 
 
 [238]
 
 INDEX 
 
 Stood the House where I was born (A. E. Waite), 
 
 139- 
 Stevenson (R. L.), Hie Terrarum, 124. 
 
 To a Garden, 128. 
 
 The Sun's Travels, 129. 
 
 Night and Day, 131. 
 
 Stuart-Menteith (Dora), The little window looks 
 
 upon the East, 138. 
 
 Sun's Travels, The (R. L. Stevenson), 129. 
 Swinburne (A. C.), The Forsaken Garden, 222. 
 
 Tannahill (R.), The Midges Dance Aboon the Burn, 
 
 48. 
 
 Tasteless Garden, The (A. Pope), 147. 
 Tennyson (A.), Come into the Garden, Maud! 85. 
 
 Across my Garden! and the thicket stirs, 119. 
 
 An Eastern City's Garden, 158. 
 
 But I Know where a Garden Grows, 159. 
 
 Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite, 170. 
 
 A Garden bower'd close, 171. 
 
 The Forsaken Garden (A. C. Swinburne), 222. 
 Theocritus, A Grecian Garden (Lang), 66. 
 The Spirit of all Gardens (Francis Thompson), 178. 
 The Trees of the Garden (D. G. Rossetti), 221. 
 Thomson (James), A Garden of Flowers, 112. 
 Thompson (Francis), A Corymbus for Autumn, 59. 
 
 The Spirit of all Gardens, 178. 
 
 To a Garden (R. L. Stevenson), 128. 
 To a Garden (Violet Fane), 229. 
 
 To the gay gardins his unstaid desire (Spenser. 
 Muiopotmos), 107. 
 
 [239]
 
 INDEX 
 
 Underneath this Myrtle Shade (Cowley), 93. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree (Shakespeare), 34. 
 
 Void Notre Heure (Anon.), 65. 
 
 Vestured and veiled with twilight (R. M. Watson), 
 141. 
 
 Waite (Arthur E.), Stood the house where I was born, 
 139. 
 
 A Ballad of White Maidens, 200. 
 
 Jam Noli Tardare, 207. 
 
 I Know where the Shadows lie so rich, 209. 
 
 Watson (Rosamund M.), Vestured and veiled with 
 
 twilight, 141. 
 
 So white with frost my garden lies, 142. 
 
 When Almost Ended was the month of May (Chau- 
 cer), 167. 
 
 When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd (Whit- 
 man), 192, 
 
 Where the Bee Sucks (Shakespeare), 33. 
 
 Whitman (Walt.), When lilacs last in the doer-yard 
 bloom'd, 192. 
 
 Wish, A (A. Cowley), 109. 
 
 Wish, The (Cowley), 44. 
 
 With deep devotion, Nature, did I feel (Words- 
 worth, The Prelude), 51. 
 
 Wither (George), Flos Florum, 36. 
 
 Wordsworth (W.), With deep devotion, Nature, did 
 I feel (The Prelude), 51. 
 
 A Fareivell, 117. 
 
 A Floiver Garden, 167. 
 
 Yvonne of Brittany (Ernest Dawson), 98. 
 
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