The Garden
I do not like my garden, but I love
The trees I planted and the flowers thereof.
How does one choose his garden? Oh with eyes
O'er which a passion or illusion lies.
Perhaps it wakens memories of a lawn
You knew before somewhere. Or you are drawn
By an old urn, a little gate, a roof
Which soars into a blue sky, clear, aloof.
One buys a garden gladly. Even the worst
Seems tolerable or beautiful at first.
Their very faults give loving labor scope
One can correct, adorn; 'tis sweet to hope
For beauty to emerge out of your toil,
To build the walks and fertilize the soil.
Before I knew my garden, or awoke
To its banality, I set an oak
At one end for a life-long husbandry,
A white syringa and a lilac tree
Close to one side to hide a crumbling wall
Which was my neighbor's, held in several
Title and beyond my right to mend —
One cannot with an ancient time contend.
Some houses shadowed me. I did not dream
The sun would never look over them and gleam,
Save at the earliest hour. So all the day
One half my garden under twilight lay.
Another soul had overlooked the shade:
I found the boundaries of a bed he made
For tulips. Well, I had a fresher trust
And spent my heart upon this sterile dust.
What thing will grow where never the sun shines?
Vainly I planted flowering stalks and vines.
What years to learn the soil? Why, even weeds
Look green and fresh. But if one concedes
Salvia will flourish not, nor palest phlox,
One might have hope left for a row of box.
Why is it that some silent places thrill
With elfin comradeship, and others fill
The heart with sickening loneliness? My breast
Seems hollow for great emptiness, unrest —
Casting my eyes about my garden where
I still must live, breathing its lifeless air.
Why should I have a garden anyway?
I have so many friends who pass the day
In streets or squares, or little barren courts.
I fancy there are gardens of all sorts,
Far worse than mine. And who has this delight? —
There's my syringa with its blooms of white!
It flourishes in my garden! In this brief
Season of blossoms and unfolding leaf
What if I like my garden not, but love
The oak tree and the lilac tree thereof,
And hide my face, lest one my rapture guess,
Amid the white syringa's loveliness?
The trees I planted and the flowers thereof.
How does one choose his garden? Oh with eyes
O'er which a passion or illusion lies.
Perhaps it wakens memories of a lawn
You knew before somewhere. Or you are drawn
By an old urn, a little gate, a roof
Which soars into a blue sky, clear, aloof.
One buys a garden gladly. Even the worst
Seems tolerable or beautiful at first.
Their very faults give loving labor scope
One can correct, adorn; 'tis sweet to hope
For beauty to emerge out of your toil,
To build the walks and fertilize the soil.
Before I knew my garden, or awoke
To its banality, I set an oak
At one end for a life-long husbandry,
A white syringa and a lilac tree
Close to one side to hide a crumbling wall
Which was my neighbor's, held in several
Title and beyond my right to mend —
One cannot with an ancient time contend.
Some houses shadowed me. I did not dream
The sun would never look over them and gleam,
Save at the earliest hour. So all the day
One half my garden under twilight lay.
Another soul had overlooked the shade:
I found the boundaries of a bed he made
For tulips. Well, I had a fresher trust
And spent my heart upon this sterile dust.
What thing will grow where never the sun shines?
Vainly I planted flowering stalks and vines.
What years to learn the soil? Why, even weeds
Look green and fresh. But if one concedes
Salvia will flourish not, nor palest phlox,
One might have hope left for a row of box.
Why is it that some silent places thrill
With elfin comradeship, and others fill
The heart with sickening loneliness? My breast
Seems hollow for great emptiness, unrest —
Casting my eyes about my garden where
I still must live, breathing its lifeless air.
Why should I have a garden anyway?
I have so many friends who pass the day
In streets or squares, or little barren courts.
I fancy there are gardens of all sorts,
Far worse than mine. And who has this delight? —
There's my syringa with its blooms of white!
It flourishes in my garden! In this brief
Season of blossoms and unfolding leaf
What if I like my garden not, but love
The oak tree and the lilac tree thereof,
And hide my face, lest one my rapture guess,
Amid the white syringa's loveliness?
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