- England 2
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In green old gardens In green old gardens, hidden away From sight of revel and sound of strife, Where the bird may sing out his soul ere he die, Nor fears for the night, so he lives his day; Where the high red walls, which are growing gray With their lichen and moss embroideries, Seem sadly and sternly to shut out life, Because it is often as red as they; Where even the bee has time to glide (Gathering gayly his honey's store) Right to the heart of the old-world flowers - China-asters and purple stocks, Dahlias and tall red hollyhocks, Laburnums raining their golden showers, Columbines prim of the folded core, And lupins, and larkspurs, and "London pride"; Where the heron is waiting amongst the reeds, Grown tame in the silence that reigns around, Broken only, now and then, By shy woodpecker or noisy jay, By the far-off watch-dog's muffled bay; But where never the purposeless laughter of men, Or the seething city's murmurous sound Will float up over the river-weeds. Here may I live what life I please, Married and buried out of sight, - Married to pleasure, and buried to pain, - Hidden away amongst scenes like these, Under the fans of the chestnut trees; Living my child-life over again, With the further hope of a fallen delight, Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees. In green old gardens, hidden away From sight of revel and sound of strife, - Here have I leisure to breathe and move, And to do my work in a nobler way; To sing my songs, and to say my say; To dream my dreams, and to love my love; To hold my faith, and to live my life, Making the most of its shadowy day. Violet Fane (1843-1905), England |
"Gardening gives me fun and health and knowledge. It gives me laughter and colour. It gives me pictures of almost incredible beauty." John F. Kenyon Seed-Time and Harvest I'll plant and water, sow and weed, Till not an inch of earth shows brown, And take a vow of each small seed To grow to greenness and renown: And then some day you'll pass my way, See gold and crimson, bell and star, And catch my garden's soul, and say: How sweet these cottage gardens are! Edith Nesbit (1858-1924), England |
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