  My Garden is a tiny square Of bordered green And gravel brown In misty town, And chimneys smoky and unclean Sweep to the sky.—You would not care To visit there. The Grass creeps up all in between the stones And raises undisturbed its luscious green And laughs for youth in shrill and ringing tones. I love it that it grows up so serene, Dauntless and bright And laughing me to scorn, So vivid and so slight, Glad for the night-shed dew and smoke-bred morn. My little patch of bordered green and brown Sleeps in the bosom of a grim old town, I wish that you could see Its beauty here with me; I'd tell you many things you never knew, For few, so few Know the romance of such a London strip, With ferny screen That slants shy gleams of sunlight in between Holding their tenure with a firm deep grip Where prouder things all die. Small wonder I Tend my tall weed as tho' it were a gem, Note every leaf, and watch the stalwart stem Wax strong and high— My weed plot lives in reckless luxury. But, in the Spring, before black grime Has done its worst, And cruel Time And dust accursed Have marred the innocence of each young leaf, Or soiled the blossoms, like a wanton thief— Masses of tulips, pink and white, Rise from the earth in prim delight, And iris, king of pomp and state, In vesture fine And purple and pale gold Its buds unfold— A mighty potentate, And marshals nobly, proudly into line, Whilst lilacs sway in wind and rushing breeze, Bowing and nodding to some poplar trees. But stay!— You would not care To visit there Midst such surroundings grey. My Garden's but an oasis of hope Set in the frown A semblance merely of the lawns you see; A hint, an echo of the things that be! But he or she would be a misanthrope Who would not share my garden hope with me. |
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