Classic Poem

I had a garden when I was a boy,
Wherein I planted fondly many a flower
And watched it grow until I felt the joy
That every gardener feels, as Nature's power
To make rare scents exhale from stalks of green
And dash rich colors o'er dull earth is seen.

In that old garden, bright with varied bloom
From crimson tulip time till winter fell,
It seemed as if no flower begotten of gloom
Had any right, or even should dare to dwell,
Yet o'er one spot where wildness still held sway
A sullen, sad, persistent shadow lay.

Amongst the grasses tangled field flowers grew,
Fringed, tender, trembling things that we called weeds
(Names mean so little), always wet with dew,
That clung to their pale disks in liquid beads, —
They seemed in the fine colour-symphony
Of the gay garden minor chords to be.

Here each September purple asters came
When earth wore gold and scarlet on her breast
And fields were ripe and Autumn's flood of flame
Swept noiseless o'er the woods from east to west,
They flaunted not in regal violet bloom
But seemed like tearful souls begot in gloom.

The lives of men are gardens from whose soil
Spring deep red-petalled roses, violets blue
As heaven; where passion flowers, too, fix their coil
Round frail anemones, heartsease, and rue;
But in some sheltered spots, bright blooms beside,
Pale, pleading purple asters always hide.

They tell us there are gardens richly clad
In crimson, sapphire, gold, awaiting men
Beyond the stars, where heavy hearts grow glad
And never to low levels sink again;
Can life so change that in such lands shall be
No purple asters of despondency?