Classic Poem

I HAD a Garden when a child;
I kept it all in order;
'Twas full of flowers as it could be,
And London-pride was its border.

And soon as came the pleasant Spring,
The singing-birds built in it;
The Blackbird and the Thostle-cock,
The Woodlark and the Linnet.

And all within my Garden ran
A labyrinth-walk so mazy;
In the middle there grew a yellow Rose,
At each end a Michaelmas Daisy.

I had a tree of Southern Wood,
And two of bright Mezereon;
A Peony root a snow-white Phlox,
And a bunch of red Valerian;

A Lilac tree, and a Guelder-Rose;
A Broom, and a Tiger-Lily:
And I walked a dozen miles to find
The true wild Daffodilly.

I had Columbines, both pink and blue,
And Thalictrum like a feather;
And the bright Goat's-beard, that shuts its leaves
Before a change of weather.

I had Marigolds, and Gilliflowers,
And Pinks all Pinks exceeding;
I'd a noble root of Love-in-a-mist,
And plenty of Love-lies-bleeding.

I'd Jacob's Ladder, Aaron's Rod,
And the Peacock-Gentianella;
I had Asters more than I can tell,
And Lupins blue and yellow.

I set a grain of Indian Corn,
One day in an idle humor,
And the grain sprung up six feet or more!
My glory for a summer.

I found far off in the pleasant fields
More flowers than I can mention;
I found the English Asphodel,
And the spring and autumn Gentian.

I found the Orchis, fly and bee,
And the Cistus of the mountain;
And the Money-wort and the Adder's-tongue
Beside an old wood fountain.

I found within another wood,
The rare Pyrola blowing:
For wherever there was a curious flower,
I was sure to find it growing.

I set them in my garden beds,
Those beds I loved so dearly,
Where I labored after set of sun,
And in summer mornings early.

O my pleasant garden-plot! —
A shrubbery was beside it,
And an old and mossy Apple-tree,
With a Woodbine wreathed to hide it.

There was a bower in my garden-plot,
A Spiraea grew before it;
Behind it was a Laburnum-tree.
And a wild Hop clambered o'er it.

Ofttimes I sat within my bower,
Like a king in all his glory;
Ofttimes I read, and read for hours
Some pleasant, wondrous story.

I read of gardens in old times,
Old, stately Gardens, kingly,
Where people walked in gorgeous crowds,
Or for silent musing, singly.

I raised up visions in my brain,
The noblest and the fairest;
But still I loved my Garden best,
And thought it far the rarest.

And all among my flowers I walked,
Like a miser 'mid his treasure;
For that pleasant plot of Garden ground
Was a world of endless pleasure.