Share these garden poems with members of your garden club or
with someone who
has a passion for planting. Also, we hope you find inspiration in the verses.
As Abram L. Urban once said, "In my garden there is a large place for sentiment.
My garden of flowers is also my garden of thoughts and dreams.
The thoughts grow as freely as the flowers, and the dreams are as beautiful."
We hope you enjoy these garden poems and share them with the gardener in your life!
The rainbow hues at eventide
Are flowers in the sky.
Which bud and blossom one by one
Up in my Garden high.
The Violet lifts her modest head
And looks the wide world through.
Then quickly comes the dainty bloom,
Forget-me-not of blue.
Glad Marigold and Roses red.
With emerald leaves about.
Chase Dandelion and Mignonette,
While Clovers pink peep out!
Next Mister Dusk-man wanders forth
With his great cloak of gray
And covers up my pretty flowers,
And hides them all away!
But well I know when night is gone,
And day-time hours fly by,
That once again my flowers bright
Will blossom in the sky!
What Is A Garden?
Poet: Reginald Arkell
What is a garden?
You've go a garden,
To one it is a piece of ground
For which some gravel must be found.
To some, those seeds that must be sown,
To some a lawn the must be mown.
To some a ton of Cheddar rocks;
To some it means a window box;
To some, who dare not pick a flower-
A man, at eighteen pence an hour.
To some, it is a silly jest
About the latest garden pest;
To some, a haven where they find
Forgetfulness and peace of mind...
What is a garden
Large or small
'Tis just a garden,
A Garden Fair
by Helen A. Fussell
I will sing you a song
Of a garden fair,
Wherein were sown seeds
That brought blossoms rare.
Love, joy and kindness,
And hearty good cheer,
Were the seeds that were sown
And flowered here.
The garden fair
Was a little child’s mind,
And the seeds were these thoughts,
Just the very best kind.
A garden can be a place of peace for me
Watching nature and flowers be
The gentle breeze that blows around
Can be such a gentle sound.
A garden can be a place to work
With weeds attacking in the lurk
While we dig them out of dirt
The weeds our flowers will not hurt.
A garden can be a place of beauty
Filled with flowers that are so groovy
A tiny seed planted, and then it blooms
The fragrance can soon consume.
The garden a place for all to enjoy
Even for the little girls and boys.
It is a place to see nature in action
Gardening can be such a passion!
Lord Alfred Tennyson
Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower - but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
What You Plant
Poet: H. Joseph Chadwick
You've planted love and friendship,
And since you planted those,
Your garden's surely blooming
With lovely memories . . .
And life has been much brighter
For everyone you've known
Because of all the gladness
And happiness you've sown!
A garden is a lovely place,
Where seeds burst through the sod,
A garden is a partnership,
Between two hands and God.
A garden is a restful place,
Where gentle breezes blow. . .
A family of growing things,
Where souls can also grow.
My Heart Shall By Thy Garden
Poet: Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell
Thy heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own,
Into thy garden; thine be happy hours
Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers,
From root to crowning petal, thine alone.
Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown
Up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers.
But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowers
To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown.
For as these come and go, and quit our pine
To follow the sweet season, or, new-comers,
Sing one song only from our alder-trees.
My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine,
Flit to the silent world and other summers,
With wings that dip beyond the silver seas.
by Martha Haskell Clark
Life did not bring me silken gowns,
Nor jewels for my hair,
Nor signs of gabled foreign towns
In distant countries fair,
But I can glimpse, beyond my pane, a green and friendly hill,
And red geraniums aflame upon my window sill.
The brambled cares of everyday,
The tiny humdrum things,
May bind my feet when they would stray,
But still my heart has wings
While red geraniums are bloomed against my window glass,
And low above my green-sweet hill the gypsy wind-clouds pass.
And if my dreamings ne’er come true,
The brightest and the best,
But leave me lone my journey through,
I’ll set my heart at rest,
And thank God for home-sweet things, a green and friendly hill,
And red geraniums aflame upon my window sill.
Poet: Robert Louis Stevenson
The gardener does not love to talk,
He makes me keep the gravel walk;
And when he puts his tools away,
He locks the door and takes the key.
Away behind the currant row
Where no one else but cook may go,
Far in the plots, I see him dig
Old and serious, brown and big.
He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue,
Nor wishes to be spoken to.
He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,
And never seems to want to play.
Silly gardener! summer goes,
And winter comes with pinching toes,
When in the garden bare and brown
You must lay your barrow down.
Well now, and while the summer stays,
To profit by these garden days
O how much wiser you would be
To play at Indian wars with me!
Poet: Jones Very
The plants that careless grow shall bloom and bud,
When wilted stands man's nicely tended flower;
E'en on the unsheltered waste, or pool's dark mud,
Spring bells and lilies fit for lady's bower.
Come with me, I will show you where they grow;
The tangled vines and boughs come push aside;
O'er yonder hilltop's craggy side we go,
Then by the path beyond we downward slide.
See, beyond pond where few but travelers pass,
Each lily opens wide its curious cup.
And here where now we track the unmown grass,
The wild-heath bell, surprised is looking up
To view the strangers that thus far have sought
The flowers that in fair Nature's robe are wrought.
Sweet is the fragrance in the air,
The cool and laughing breeze;
The gardens now are wondrous fair
With blossoms on the trees.
The hills and valleys now are green
And all the world is gay;
And nestlings carol loud and clear
To welcome you, sweet May.
A Life Garden
Poet: Mabel Earle
A garden-plot of sunny hours
God gives me when I wake,
And I can make it bright with flowers
All day for his dear sake.
Red roses, if my heart is sweet
With love for all my own;
And heart's-ease springing at my feet
For every kindness shown.
And shining, sunny marigold,
If I am brave and bright;
And lilies, for the thoughts that hold
My heart all pure and white.
Sweet violets, hiding in their leaves,
For truth and modesty;
And balsams if a soul that grieves
Finds comforting in me.
And poppies, if my toil brings rest
To hands grown tired with care;
And always - first and last and best -
Forget-me-nots of prayer.
The Child In The Garden
Poet: Henry VanDyke
When to the garden of untroubled thought
I came of late, and saw the open door,
And wished again to enter, and explore
The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought,
And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught,
It seemed some purer voice must speak before
I dared to tread that garden loved of yore,
That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.
Then just within the gate I saw a child,-
A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear;
He held his hands to me, and softly smiled
With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear:
"Come in," he said, "and play awhile with me;
"I am the little child you used to be."
A Little Dutch Garden
Poet: Harriet Whitney Dubbin
I passed by a garden, a little Dutch garden,
Where useful and pretty things grew, -
Heart's-ease and tomatoes, and pinks and potatoes,
And lilies and onions and rue.
I saw in that garden, that little Dutch garden,
A chubby Dutch man with a spade,
And a rosy Dutch frau with a shoe like a scow.
And a flaxen-haired little Dutch maid.
There grew in that garden, that little Dutch garden,
Blue Hag (lowers lovely and tall,
And early blush roses, and little pink posies,
But Gretchen was fairer than all.
My heart's in that garden, that little Dutch' garden, -
It tumbled right in as I passed.
Mid wildering mazes of spinach and daisies.
And Gretchen is holding it fast.
Making A Garden
Man plows and plants and digs and weeds;
He works with hoe and spade;
God sends the sun and rain and air,
And thus a garden's made.
He must be proud who tills the soil
And turns the heavy sod:
How wonderful a thing to be
In partnership with God.
In A Garden
Poet: Dorothy Frances Gurney
The kiss of the sun for pardon
The song of the birds for mirth,
You're nearer God's heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.
What Seeds Are You Planting
by J. R. Miller
We are are not through with our life as we live it.
Every act, every word, every thought, every choice,
Is a seed which we drop.
We go on carelessly, never dreaming
that we shall ever again see our deeds.
Then some day we come upon an ugly plant growing somewhere, and we ask,
"What is this?"
Comes the answer:
"I am one of your plants. You dropped the seed which grew into me."
Our lives are the little garden plants in
Which it is our privilege to drop seeds.
We shall have to eat the fruits of the seeds
Which we are planting these days.
I'd like to leave but daffodills to mark my little way,
To leave but tulips red and white behind me as I stray;
I'd like to pass away from earth and feel I'd left behind
But roses and forget-me-nots for all who come to find.
I'd like to sow the barren spots with all the flowers of earth,
To leave a path where those who come should find but gentle mirth;
And when at last I'm called upon to join the heavenly throng
I'd like to feel along my way I'd left no sign of wrong.
And yet the cares are many and the hours of toil are few;
There is not time enough on earth for all I'd like to do;
But, having lived and having toiled, I'd like the world to find
Some little touch of beauty that my soul had left behind.
Morning Glory Buds
Poet: J. H. Johnston
No folded morning-glory bud
Blooms, closes fast, then blooms again:
Once shaken out, the colors fade,
The beauty's gone for aye, — but then,
New buds will open to the day
When next the early morn awakes;
So, though some bright things pass away,
My heart some hopeful comfort takes.
Our "life hath many mornings," so
Hath said some rarely gifted one;
And morning-glory buds will bloom
With every summer-morning sun.