Poems About Gardens

So long have the gray, bare walks lain guestless,Through branches and briers if a man make way,He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restlessNight and day.

The dense, hard passage is blind and stifledThat crawls by a track none turn to climbTo the strait waste place that the years have rifledOf all but the thorns that are touched not of Time.The thorns he spares when the rose is taken;The rocks are left when he wastes the plain.The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken,These remain.

Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not;As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry;From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not,Could she call, there were never a rose to reply.Over the meadows that blossom and witherRings but the note of a sea-bird's song;Only the sun and the rain come hitherAll year long.

The sun burns sere and the rain dishevelsOne gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath.Only the wind here hovers and revelsIn a round where life seems barren as death.Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping,Haply, of lovers none ever will know,Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleepingYears ago.

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Look thither,"Did he, whisper? "Look forth from the flowers to the sea;For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither,And men that love lightly may die--but we?"And the same wind sang and the same waves whitened,And or ever the garden's last petals were shed,In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened,Love was dead.

Or they loved their life through, and then went whither?And were one to the end--but what end who knows?Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither,As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose.Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them?What love was ever as deep as a grave?They are loveless now as the grass above themOr the wave.

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 hoversIn the air now soft with a summer to be.Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafterOf the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep,When, as they that are free now of weeping and laughter,We shall sleep.

Here death may deal not again forever;Here change may come not till all change end.From the graves they have made they shall rise up never,Who have left naught living to ravage and rend.Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing,While the sun and the rain live, these shall be;Till a last wind's breath, upon all these blowing,Roll the sea.

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble,Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humbleThe fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink;Here now in his triumph where all things falter,Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,Death lies dead.

Your sacred plants, if here below,Only among the plants will grow:Society is all but rudeTo this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seenSo amorous as this lovely green.Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,Cut in these trees their mistress' name:Little, alas! they know or heedHow far these beauties hers exceed!Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passions' heat,Love hither makes his best retreat:The gods, who mortal beauty chase,Still in a tree did end their race:Apollo hunted Daphne soOnly that she might laurel grow;And Pan did after Syrinx speedNot as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life in this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head;The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine;The nectarine and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach;Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure lessWithdraws into its happiness;The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find;Yet it creates, transcending these,Far other worlds, and other seas;Annihilating all that's madeTo a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding footOr at some fruit-tree's mossy root,Casting the body's vest asideMy soul into the boughs does glide;There, like a bird, it sits and sings,Then whets and claps its silver wings,And, till prepared for longer flight,Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy Garden-stateWhile man there walk'd without a mate:After a place so pure and sweet,What other help could yet be meet!But 'twas beyond a mortal's shareTo wander solitary there:Two paradises are in one,To live in Paradise alone.

How well the skilful gardener drewOf flowers and herbs this dial new!Where, from above, the milder sunDoes through a fragrant zodiac run:And, as it works, th' industrious beeComputes its time as well as we.How could such sweet and wholesome hoursBe reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!

The trees were interwoven wild,And spread their boughs enough aboutTo keep both sheep and shepherd out, But not a happy child.

Adventurous joy it was for me;I crept beneath the boughs, and foundA circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar-tree.

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in;Bedropt with roses waxen-white,Well satisfied with dew and light, And careless to be seen.

Long years ago, it might befall,When all the garden flowers were trim,The grave old gardener prided him On these the most of all.

Some Lady, stately overmuch,Here moving with a silken noise,Has blush’d beside them at the voice That liken’d her to such.

Or these, to make a diadem,She often may have pluck’d and twined;Half-smiling as it came to mind, That few would look at them.

O, little thought that Lady proud,A child would watch her fair white rose,When buried lay her whiter brows, And silk was changed for shroud!--

Nor thought that gardener (full of scornsFor men unlearn’d and simple phrase)A child would bring it all its praise, By creeping through the thorns!

To me upon my low moss seat,Though never a dream the roses sentOf science or love’s compliment, I ween they smelt as sweet.

It did not move my grief to seeThe trace of human step departed:Because the garden was deserted, The blither place for me!

Friends, blame me not! a narrow kenHath childhood ’twixt the sun and sward;We draw the moral afterward-- We feel the gladness then.

And gladdest hours for me did glideIn silence at the rose-tree wall:A thrush made gladness musical Upon the other side.

Nor he nor I did e’er inclineTo peck or pluck the blossoms white:--How should I know but that they might Lead lives as glad as mine?

To make my hermit-home complete,I brought clear water from the springPraised in its own low murmuring, And cresses glossy wet.

And so, I thought, my likeness grew(Without the melancholy tale)To ‘gentle hermit of the dale,’ And Angelina too.

For oft I read within my nookSuch minstrel stories; till the breezeMade sounds poetic in the trees, And then I shut the book.

If I shut this wherein I write,I hear no more the wind athwartThose trees, nor feel that childish heart Delighting in delight.

My childhood from my life is parted,My footstep from the moss which drewIts fairy circle round: anew The garden is deserted.

Another thrush may there rehearseThe madrigals which sweetest are;No more for me!--myself afar Do sing a sadder verse.

Ah me! ah me! when erst I layIn that child’s-nest so greenly wrought,I laugh’d unto myself and thought, ‘The time will pass away.’

And still I laugh’d, and did not fearBut that, whene’er was pass’d awayThe childish time, some happier play My womanhood would cheer.

I knew the time would pass away;And yet, beside the rose-tree wall,Dear God, how seldom, if at all, Did I look up to pray!

The time is past: and now that growsThe cypress high among the trees,And I behold white sepulchres As well as the white rose,--

When wiser, meeker thoughts are given,And I have learnt to lift my face,Reminded how earth’s greenest place The colour draws from heaven,--

It something saith for earthly pain,But more for heavenly promise free,That I who was, would shrink to be That happy child again.

O thou, that dear and happy Isle,The garden of the world erewhile,Thou Paradise of the four seasWhich Heaven planted us to please,But, to exclude the world, did guardWith wat’ry if not flaming sword;What luckless apple did we tasteTo make us mortal and thee waste!Unhappy! shall we never moreThat sweet militia restore,When gardens only had their towers,And all the garrisons were flowers;When roses only arms might bear,And men did rosy garlands wear?

The far-off, blue, HomericRim of the world's great shield,A border of boundless glamorFor the soul's familiar field.

In purple and gray-wrought lichenThe boulders lie in the sun;Along its grassy footpath,The white-tailed rabbits run.The crickets work and chirrupThrough the still afternoon;And the owl calls at twilightUnder the frosty moon.

The odorous wild grape clambersOver the tumbling wall,And through the autumnal quietThe chestnuts open and fall.Sharing time's freshness and fragrance,Part of the earth's great soul,Here man's spirit may ripenTo 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.Shall we not lift with the cricketsA chorus of ready cheer,Braving the frost of oblivion,Quick to be happy here?

The deep red cones of the sumachAnd the woodbine's crimson spraysHave bannered the common roadsideFor the pageant of passing days.These are the oracles NatureFills with her holy breath,Giving them glory of color,Transcending the shadow of death.

Here in the sifted sunlightA spirit seems to broodOn the beauty and worth of being,In tranquil, instinctive mood;And the heart, athrob with gladnessSuch as the wise earth knows,Wells with a full thanksgivingFor the gifts that life bestows:

For the ancient and virile nurtureOf the teeming primordial ground,For the splendid gospel of color,The rapt revelations of sound;For the morning-blue above usAnd the rusted gold of the fern,For the chickadee's call to valorBidding 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 moonriseOver the crest of trees,When the mellow lights are kindledIn the lamps of the centuries.

For those who wrought aforetime,Led by the mystic strainTo 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 treasuresAccounted of little worth;

For art and learning and friendship,Where beneficent truth is supreme,Those everlasting citiesBuilt on the hills of dream;For all things growing and goodlyThat foster this life, and breedThe immortal flower of wisdomOut of the mortal seed.

But most of all for the spiritThat can not rest nor bideIn 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 gardenMust climb for a glimpse of sea.

By that prim box path where I felt the glowOf her dimpled, trusting arm,And the sweep of her silk as she turned and smiledA smile as pure as her pearls;The breeze was in love with the darling Child,And coaxed her curls.

She showed me her ferns and woodbine sprays,Foxglove and jasmine stars,A mist of blue in the beds, a blazeOf red in the celadon jars:And velvety bees in convolvulus bells,And roses of bountiful Spring.But I said--"Though roses and bees have spells,They have thorn, and sting."

She showed me ripe peaches behind a netAs fine as her veil, and fatGoldfish a-gape, who lazily metFor her crumbs--I grudged them that!A squirrel, some rabbits with long lop ears,And guinea-pigs, tortoise-shell--wee;And I told her that eloquent truth inheresIn all we see.

I lifted her doe by its lops, quoth I,"Even here deep meaning lies,--Why have squirrels these ample tails, and whyHave rabbits these prominent eyes?"She smiled and said, as she twirled her veil,"For some nice little cause, no doubt--If you lift a guinea-pig up by the tailHis eyes drop out!"

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,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 soundWill 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;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 awayFrom 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.

And dark, descending stairway foundThat led to kingdoms underground:There standing, you should hear with easeStrange birds a-singing, or the treesSwing in big robber woods, or bellsOn many fairy citadels:

There passing through (a step or so—Neither mamma nor nurse need know!)From your nice nurseries you would pass,Like Alice through the Looking-GlassOr Gerda following Little Ray,To wondrous countries far away.Well, and just so this volume canTransport each little maid or manPresto from where they live awayWhere other children used to play.As from the house your mother seesYou playing round the garden trees,So you may see if you but lookThrough the windows of this bookAnother child far, far awayAnd in another garden play.But do not think you can at all,By knocking on the window, callThat child to hear you. He intentIs still 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 airThat lingers in the garden there.

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-sidePlay not in Nature's lawful web,They heed not moon or solar tide,--Five years elapse from flood to ebb.

Hither 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.

Aeolian harps in the pineRing with the song of the Fates;Infant Bacchus in the vine,--Far distant yet his chorus waits.

Canst thou copy in verse one chimeOf 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 abodesTo man imprisoned in his own.

Ever the words of the gods resound;But the porches of man's earSeldom in this low life's roundAre unsealed that he may hear.

Wandering voices in the airAnd murmurs in the woldSpeak what I cannot declare,Yet cannot all withhold.

When the shadow fell on the lake,The whirlwind in ripples wroteAir-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 lastHe will spell in the sculpture, 'Stay.'