11 Poems about Gardens by Famous Poets

1. My Garden Is A Pleasant Place
   Famous Poet - Louise Driscoll, 1875 - 1957
   
   My garden is a pleasant place
   Of sun glory and leaf grace.
   There is an ancient cherry tree
   Where yellow warblers sing to me,
   And an old grape arbor, where
   A robin builds her nest, and there
   Above the lima beans and peas
   She croons her little melodies,
   Her blue eggs hidden in the green
   Fastness of that leafy screen.
   Here are striped zinnias that bees
   Fly far to visit, and sweet peas,
   Like little butterflies newborn,
   And over by the tasselled corn
   Are sunflowers and hollyhocks,
   And pink and yellow four-o'clocks.
   Here are hummingbird that come
   To seek the tall delphinium-
   Songless bird and scentless flower
   Communing in a golden hour.




2. 
   
   
   
3. The Fruit Garden Path
   Famous Poet: Amy Lowell, 1874 - 1925
   
   The path runs straight between the flowering rows,
   A moonlit path, hemmed in by beds of bloom,
   Where phlox and marigolds dispute for room
   With tall, red dahlias and the briar rose.
   
   ‘T is reckless prodigality which throws
   Into the night these wafts of rich perfume
   Which sweep across the garden like a plume.
   Over the trees a single bright star glows.
   
   Dear garden of my childhood, here my years
   Have run away like little grains of sand;
   The moments of my life, its hopes and fears
   Have all found utterance here, where now I stand;
   My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears,
   You are my home, do you not understand?




4. 
   Plant Your Own Garden Poem




5. The Garden
   Famous Poet: Helen Hoyt, 1887 - 1972
   
   Do not fear.
   The garden is yours
   And it is yours to gather the fruits
   And every flower of every kind,
   And to set the high wall about it
   And the closed gates.
   The gates of your wall no hand shall open,
   Not feet shall pass,
   Through all the days until your return.
   Do not fear.
   
   But soon,
   Soon let it be, your coming!
   For the pathways will grow desolate waiting,
   The flowers say, “Our loveliness has no eyes to behold it!"
   The leaves murmur all day with longing,
   All night the boughs of the trees sway themselves with longing…
   
   O Master of the Garden,
   O my sun and rain and dew,
   Come quickly.




Garden Quotes



6. My Garden with Walls
   Famous Poet: William Brooks
   
   My heart a garden is, a garden walled;
   And in the wide white spaces near the gates
   Grow tall and showy flowers, sun-loving flowers,
   Where they are seen of every passer-by;
   Who straightway faring on doth bear the tale
   How bright my garden is and filled with sun.
   
   But there are shaded walks far from the gates,
   So far the passer-by can never see,
   Where violets grow for thoughts of those afar,
   And rue for memories of vanished days,
   And sweet forget-me-nots to bid me think
   
   With tenderness, - lest I grow utter cold
   And hard as women grow who never weep.
   And when come times I fear that Love is dead
   And Sorrow rules as King the world’s white ways,
   I go with friends I love among these beds.
   Where friend and flower do speak alike to me,
   Sometimes with silences, sometimes with words.
   
   ‘Tis then I thank my God for those high walls
   That shut the friends within, the world without,
   That passers-by may only see the sun.
   That friends I love may share the quiet shade.




Funny Garden Poems



7. Blight
   Famous Poet: Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892 - 1950
   
   Hard seeds of hate I planted
   That should by now be grown, -
   Rough stalks, and from thick stamens
   A poisonous pollen blown,
   And odors rank, unbreathable,
   From dark corollas thrown!
   
   At dawn from my damp garden
   I shook the chilly dew;
   The thin boughs locked behind me
   That sprang to let me through,
   The blossoms slept,- I sought a place
   Where nothing lovely grew.
   
   And there, when day was breaking,
   I knelt and looked around:
   The light was near, the silence
   Was palpitant with sound;
   I drew my hate from out my breast
   And thrust it in the ground.
   
   Oh, ye so fiercely tended,
   Ye little seeds of hate!
   I bent above your growing
   Early and noon and late,
   Yet are ye drooped and pitiful,-
   I cannot rear ye straight!
   
   The sun seeks out my garden,
   No nook is left in shade,
   No mist nor mold nor mildew
   Endures on any blade,
   Sweet rain slants under every bough:
   Ye falter, and ye fade.




8. Garden An Analogy To Life
   Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
   
   A garden is an analogy to life,
   It teaches wisdom, far beyond strife.
   The beauty of  fragrant roses,
   The joy of life flow, it proposes.
   
   Weeds arise from hidden places,
   Like negative thoughts deep in our minds;
   Spreading rapidly until all there is,
   A tangled mess and we are in a bind.
   
   It is up to us to pull them out one by one,
   Speaking words of courage and hope instead,
   Resisting the fear and hurtful ties;
   We no longer allow these negative thoughts to spread!
   
   Alas, weeds can despoil the view,
   Life's challenges may surface too.
   Our efforts determine how the garden thrives
   The same is true of life and the things for which we strive.




Poems About Effort



9. A Wondrous Show
   Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
   
   So lush and alive, my garden grows,
   Vibrant flowers like a wondrous show.
   
   Lush green grass in the wind does sway,
   A blazing canvas of color each day.
   
   Daisies and petunias of yellow and white,
   Blooming roses cause delight.
   
   The blooms are brightly aglow,
   Enchanting beauty in each row.




10. The Sensitive Plant
    Poet: Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792 - 1822
    
    A sensitive plant in a garden grew,
    And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
    And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light,
    And closed them beneath the kisses of night.
    
    And the spring arose on the garden fair,
    And the Spirit of Love fell everywhere;
    And each flower and herb on earth's dark breast,
    Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
    
    But none ever trembled and panted with bliss,
    In the garden, the field, or the wilderness,
    Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want,
    As the companionless sensitive plant.
    
    The snowdrop, and theft the violet,
    Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,
    And their breath was mixed with fresh odour,
    From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.
    
    Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall,
    And narcissi, the fairest among them all,
    Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess.
    Till they die of their own sweet loveliness;
    
    And the Naiad-like lily of the vale,
    Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale.
    That the light of its tremulous bells is seen
    Through their pavilions of tender green;
    
    And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue.
    Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew.
    Of music so delicate, soft, and intense.
    It was felt like an odour within the sense;
    
    And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest.
    Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast.
    Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air
    The soul of her beauty and love lay bare;
    
    And the wand-like lily, which lifted up,
    As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup.
    Till the fiery star, which is its eye,
    Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky;
    
    And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuber-rose.
    The sweetest flower for scent that blows;
    And all rare blossoms from every clime
    Grew in that garden in perfect prime.




11. Along The Way
    Poet: Wilhelmina Stitch
    
    "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may," a pessimistic poet sang.
    Sweet joy, warned he, lives but a day; thus mournfully his verses rang.
    "Gather ye rosebuds while ye can" - O poet, dead these many years,
    Yours was a wise and human plan, but born of vain and foolish fears.
    
    The rosebuds droop, but other flowers spring up for us to pluck and twine
    Into our calm, maturer hours—not youth alone knows love's red wine.
    And when the rosebuds are all dead, we'll see perchance a sturdier bloom,
    And pluck that for our joy instead, and find it, too, can banish gloom.
    
    For every season brings to birth a flower for its own special joy.
    What would a rose-strewn life be worth without a thorn for its alloy?
    For every mile along the road, close to my hand a flower I'll find.
    I'll add its beauty to my load - and thank Old Time, the gardener kind.