My Garden

Be inspired by these poems that contain thoughts on gardens and how the gardens make them feel. You will find thoughts on the seasons and how they can impact gardening. Plus the memories that our gardens give us.

Short Poems    /   Garden Poems    /  My Garden - related: Garden Quotes

  1. My Garden
    by Ralph Waldo Emerson

    If I could put my woods in song
    And tell what's there enjoyed,
    All men would to my gardens throng,
    And leave the cities void.

    In my plot no tulips blow, -
    Snow-loving pines and oaks instead;
    And rank the savage maples grow
    From Spring's faint flush to Autumn red.

    My garden is a forest ledge
    Which older forests bound;
    The banks slope down to the blue lake-edge,
    Then plunge to depths profound.

    Here once the Deluge ploughed,
    Laid the terraces, one by one;
    Ebbing later whence it flowed,
    They bleach and dry in the sun.

    The sowers made haste to depart,
    The wind and the birds which sowed it;
    Not for fame, nor by rules of art,
    Planted these, and tempests flowed it.

    Waters that wash my garden-side
    Play not in Nature's lawful web,
    They heed not moon or solar tide,—
    Five years elapse from flood to ebb.

    Hither hasted, in old time, Jove,
    And every god,—none did refuse;
    And be sure at last came Love,
    And after Love, the Muse.

    Keen ears can catch a syllable,
    As if one spake to another,
    In the hemlocks tall, untamable,
    And what the whispering grasses smother.

    Aeolian harps in the pine
    Ring with the song of the Fates;
    Infant Bacchus in the vine,-
    Far distant yet his chorus waits.

    Canst thou copy in verse one chime
    Of the wood-bell's peal and cry,
    Write in a book the morning's prime,
    Or match with words that tender sky?

    Wonderful verse of the gods,
    Of one import, of varied tone;
    They chant the bliss of their abodes
    To man imprisoned in his own.

    Ever the words of the gods resound;
    But the porches of man's ear
    Seldom in this low life's round
    Are unsealed that he may hear.

    Wandering voices in the air
    And murmurs in the wold
    Speak what I cannot declare,
    Yet cannot all withhold.

    When the shadow fell on the lake,
    The whirlwind in ripples wrote
    Air-bells of fortune that shine and break,
    And omens above thought.

    But the meanings cleave to the lake,
    Cannot be carried in book or urn;
    Go thy ways now, come later back,
    On waves and hedges still they burn.

    These the fates of men forecast,
    Of better men than live to-day;
    If who can read them comes at last
    He will spell in the sculpture, 'Stay.'

  2. The Garden Of Memory
    Poet: George Arnold

    There is a garden which my memory knows,
    A grand old garden of the days gone by,
    Where lofty trees invite the breeze,
    And underneath them blooms many a rose,
    Of rarest crimson or deep purple dye;
    And there extends as far as eye can see,
    Dim vistas of cool greenery.

    Quaint marble statues, clothed with vines and mould,
    Gleam gray and spectral 'mid foliage there:
    Grimly they stand on every hand.
    Along the walk whose sands are smoothly rolled,
    And borders trimmed with constant, watchful, care;
    There Memory sits, and hears soft voices call
    Above the plashing waterfall.

    Old, faded bowers, with their rustic seats
    Of knotted branches closely interwined,
    May there be seen the walks between:
    Within their shade the dove at noon retreats.
    And gives her sad voice to the summer wind;
    Around them bloom sweet flowers, where all day long
    The wild bee drones his dreamy song.

    The garden stretches downward to the lake,
    Where gentle ripples kiss a pebbly shore;
    All cool and deep the waters sleep,
    With nought the calm of their repose to break,
    Save now and then the splashing of an oar,
    Or the long train of diamond sparkles bright
    Left by the swallows' flight.

    Within that garden memory oft recalls
    Gay friends, who lived, and loved, and passed away:
    Who met at morn upon the lawn,
    And strolled in couples by the garden walks,
    Or on the grass beneath the maples lay.
    And passed the hours as gaily as might be,
    With olden tales of chivalry.

  3. One-Sided Faith
    Poet: Edgar A. Guest

    I know the rose will bloom again
    As soon as it is June,
    The robin will return by then
    To sing his merry time.
    I know the wintry cold will pass,
    The gray clouds change to blue,
    But I think my present woe, alas!
    Must last my whole life through.

    I view my little garden bare
    And smile from day to day,
    I know the green will glisten there
    As soon as it is May.
    I face the winter, brave of heart,
    I know that it will go,
    But every little ache and smart
    Sets me to grieving so.

    If I can view the winter's snow.
    My garden desolate
    And smile, because right well I know
    If I will only wait
    The days of spring will soon return,
    And bring me back the rose.
    Have I not wit enough to learn
    That time will cure my woes?

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