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.
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?
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.
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,
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.
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.
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.
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.
May these poems about gardens encourage and inspire you to experience the love
of planting, and caring for a garden. Share these poems with the gardener in your life, they will appreciate the
verses and thoughts!