The July Garden
It’s July in my garden; and steel-blue are the globe thistles
And French grey the willows that bow to every breeze;
And deep in every currant bush a robber blackbird whistles
“I’m picking, I’m picking, I’m picking these!”
So off I go to rout them, and find instead I’m gazing
At clusters of delphiniums—the seed was small and brown,
But these are spurs that fell from heaven and caught the most amazing
Colours of the welkin’s own as they came hustling down.
And then some roses catch my eye, or may be some Sweet Williams
Or pink and white and purple peals of Canterbury bells
Or pencilled Violas that peep between the three-leaved trilliums
Or red-hot pokers all aglow or poppies that cast spells—
And while I stare at each in turn I quite forget or pardon
The blackbirds—and the blackguards—that keep robbing me of pie;
For what do such things matter when I have so fair a garden
And what is half so lovely as my garden in July?
Robert Ernest Vernède