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.
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
Happy 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.
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?
In my garden, the vegetables grow,
From the seeds I planted and sowed.
I tenderly cared for them every day,
And watched as they flourished in every way.
The harvest I will receive will be so grand,
The rewards of my efforts I will have in hand.
My joy will triple when I finally taste the fruit of my labor,
Bounteous goodness I will share with my neighbor.