GREEN THINGS GROWING MY GARDEN A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot! 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. Thomas Edward Brown [1830-1897] THE GARDEN How vainly men themselves amaze Crowned from some single herb or tree, Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, To this delicious solitude. The Garden No white nor red was ever seen How far these beauties hers exceed! No name When we have run our passions' heat, What wondrous life is this I lead! 1 Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, The mind, that ocean where each kind Here at the fountain's sliding foot, There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Such was that happy Garden-state What other help could yet be meet! To wander solitary there: How well the skilful gardener drew How could such sweet and wholesome hours Andrew Marvell [1621-1678) A GARDEN WRITTEN AFTER THE CIVIL WARS SEE how the flowers, as at parade, Of stars walks round about the pole, Their leaves, that to the stalks are curled, Seem to their staves the ensigns furled. Then in some flower's beloved hut Each bee, as sentinel, is shut, And sleeps so too; but if once stirred, She runs you through, nor asks the word. A Garden Song O thou, that dear and happy Isle, Which Heaven planted us to please, When gardens only had their towers, Andrew Marvell [1621-1678] A GARDEN SONG HERE, in this sequestered close All the seasons run their race Here, in alleys cool and green, Sounds of toil and turmoil are. Here be shadows large and long; Grant, O garden-god, that I, Find the fair Pierides! Austin Dobson [1840 "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; Where the high red walls, which are growing gray With their lichen and moss embroideries, Seem sadly and sternly to shut out life, Because it is often as red as they; Where even the bee has time to glide (Gathering gayly his honey's store) Right to the heart of the old-world flowers China-asters and purple stocks, Dahlias and tall red hollyhocks, 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, 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. 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; |