The Garden
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 Throstle-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 humour,
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 laboured 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 Spiræa 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.