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Garden Poems

Table of Contents

Poems About the Garden

  1. The Little Plant by Kate Brown
  2. The Formal Garden by Amos Russel Wells
  3. In the Garden by Ernest Crosby
  4. The Lady Has a Garden by Annette Wynne
  5. The Gardener by Robert Louis Stevenson
  6. Baby Seed Song by Edith Nesbit
  7. Lines to a Garden Hose by Anonymous
  8. In the Garden by Emily Dickinson
  9. God's Garden by Annette Wynne
  10. Essential oils are wrung: by Emily Dickinson
  11. New feet within my garden go by Emily Dickinson
  12. Clod of the Earth by Anna Hempstead Branch
  13. Garden Magic by Bliss Carman
  14. Garden Shadows by Bliss Carman
  15. Here and Now by Bliss Carman
  16. The Garden of Saint Rose by Bliss Carman
  17. The Tryst by John B. Tabb
  18. Etiquette by John B. Tabb
  19. Arbutus by Adelaide Crapsey
  20. The Garden Year by Sara Coleridge
  21. The Power of Botany by Eliza Wolcott
  22. Little Rain by Elizabeth Madox Roberts
  23. The Garden Wasn't a Garden by Annette Wynne
  24. March and April by Annette Wynne
  25. Le Jardin by Oscar Wilde
  26. End of March by Annette Wynne

Poems About Garden Plants

  1. Summer Glory by Annette Wynne
  2. Strawberries by John Townsend Trowbridge
  3. The Voice of the Grass by Sarah Roberts
  4. The Grass by Emily Dickinson
  5. A Blade of Grass by Ruby Archer
  6. The Ivy Green by Charles Dickens
  7. The Mushroom by Emily Dickinson
  8. Fern Song by John B. Tabb
  9. The Withered Rose-Tree by Peter Burn
  10. Garden Under Lightning (Ghost Story) by Leonora Speyer
  11. Putting in the Seed by Robert Frost
  12. Thistle Down by Kate Slaughter McKinney
  13. My Stalk of Corn by Ellen P. Allerton
  14. Garden Dusk by Grace Hazard Conkling
  15. The Little Plant on the Window Speaks by Annette Wynne
  16. Blue-Eyed Grass of May by Annette Wynne

Poems About the Garden

  1. The Little Plant

    by Kate Brown

    In the heart of a seed,
    Buried deep, so deep,
    A dear little plant
    Lay fast asleep.

    "Wake!" said the sunshine,
    "And creep to the light."
    "Wake!" said the voice
    Of the raindrops bright.

    The little plant heard,
    And it rose to see
    What the wonderful
    Outside world might be.

  2. The Formal Garden

    by Anonymous

    Beyond its dignified border
    Stretches the wildwood away;
    Tangles of happy disorder,
    Freely, triumphantly gay.

    Here in a peace that is pleasant,
    Studious, toilsomely fair,
    Severe as a scholarly peasant,
    Lies my Garden of Care.

    Reaches of turf well watered,
    Breath of a stately perfume;
    Squares conscientiously quartered,
    Ranked in regiment bloom;

    Files of lilies and roses,
    Bands of dahlia and phlox;
    Hidden and intricate closes
    Bound in a framework of box;

    Walks with never a curving,
    Juniper soldierly trim,
    Modest air of deserving,
    Smiling, and quiet,—and grim.

    Who but must feel the calm gladness
    Here holding militant sway?
    And who could fall of the madness
    To long to leap forth and away?

    Ever I've toiled in its beauty
    Since the bright years of a boy;
    This difficult Garden of Duty,
    Set in the Wildwood of Joy.

  3. In the Garden

    by Ernest Crosby

    I spied beside the garden bed
    A tiny lass of ours,
    Who stopped and bent her sunny head
    Above the red June flowers.

    Pushing the leaves and thorns apart,
    She singled out a rose,
    And in its inmost crimson heart,
    Enraptured, plunged her nose.

    "O dear, dear rose, come, tell me true—
    Come, tell me true," said she,
    "If I smell just as sweet to you
    As you smell sweet to me!"

  4. God's Garden

    by Annette Wynne

    God's garden stretches far and wide,
    With trees and birds on every side,
    With sunshine all the summer day
    So people may walk out and play,
    And lanterns hanging through the night
    To keep the pathways always bright;
    God's garden stretches near and far—
    From my gate to the evening star.

  5. The Lady Has a Garden

    by Annette Wynne

    The lady has a garden wide,
    With great stone walls on either side,
    And every flower that grows is there—
    But—what does the lady care!

    My garden is so very small,
    It needs no fence, it needs no wall;
    It's but one tiny plant—that's all!
    And yet I tend it with a will—
    My garden is my window sill!

  6. The Gardener

    by 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!

  7. Baby Seed Song

    by Edith Nesbit

    Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,
    Are you awake in the dark?
    Here we lie cosily, close to each other:
    Hark to the song of the lark—
    "Waken!" the lark says, "waken and dress you;
    Put on your green coats and gay,
    Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine caress you—
    Waken! 'tis morning—'tis May!"

    Little brown brother, oh! little brown brother,
    What kind of flower will you be?
    I'll be a poppy—all white, like my mother;
    Do be a poppy like me.
    What! you're a sun-flower? How I shall miss you
    When you're grown golden and high!
    But I shall send all the bees up to kiss you;
    Little brown brother, good-bye.

  8. Lines to a Garden Hose

    by Anonymous

    Sprinkle, sprinkle, little hose
    (You can't help it, I suppose);
    The unsodded, fruitful dirt,
    Sodden with thy sudden squirt!

    Squirt and sprinkle gentle hose
    Drowning less torrential woes
    Giving merry worms their drink
    Softly squirtle sweetly sprink

    As in other larger floods
    Rainbows glint thy fertile muds
    So assured of final calm
    Through thy nozzle pour thy balm

    Make the sidewalk and the street
    Moist for parched and weary feet
    Keep thy rivulets a flow
    Tripping each fantastic toe

    Seek thy brethren on the limb
    Fetching them into the swim
    Till as each doth pass the fence
    Scattering his eloquence

    Uttereth each a single note
    Like thee from his liquid throat
    And the idlest as she goes
    Darns the customary hose

    Then thy simple duty done
    Quit as erstwhile quits the sun
    With the other hoes to bed
    Coiling in thy shadowy shed

    Gardeners proclaim thy praise
    Children love thy childlike ways
    May we like them learn from thee
    Irresponsibility

  9. In the Garden

    by Emily Dickinson

    A bird came down the walk:
    He did not know I saw;
    He bit an angle-worm in halves
    And ate the fellow, raw.

    And then he drank a dew
    From a convenient grass,
    And then hopped sidewise to the wall
    To let a beetle pass.

    He glanced with rapid eyes
    That hurried all abroad, —
    They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
    He stirred his velvet head

    Like one in danger; cautious,
    I offered him a crumb,
    And he unrolled his feathers
    And rowed him softer home

    Than oars divide the ocean,
    Too silver for a seam,
    Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
    Leap, plashless, as they swim.

  10. Essential oils are wrung:

    by Emily Dickinson

    Essential oils are wrung:
    The attar from the rose
    Is not expressed by suns alone,
    It is the gift of screws.

    The general rose decays;
    But this, in lady's drawer,
    Makes summer when the lady lies
    In ceaseless rosemary.

  11. New feet within my garden go

    by Emily Dickinson

    New feet within my garden go,
    New fingers stir the sod;
    A troubadour upon the elm
    Betrays the solitude.

    New children play upon the green,
    New weary sleep below;
    And still the pensive spring returns,
    And still the punctual snow!

  12. Clod of the Earth

    by Anna Hempstead Branch

    Clod of the earth, that hardly knows
    How the warm sun comes or the cold rain goes,
    That lieth dumb and bleak and bare,
    It was thy thought begat the rose.

  13. Garden Magic

    by Bliss Carman

    Within my stone-walled garden
    (I see her standing now,
    Uplifted in the twilight,
    With glory on her brow!)

    I love to walk at evening
    And watch, when winds are low,
    The new moon in the tree-tops,
    Because she loved it so!

    And there entranced I listen,
    While flowers and winds confer,
    And all their conversation
    Is redolent of her.

    I love the trees that guard it,
    Upstanding and serene,
    So noble, so undaunted,
    Because that was her mien.

    I love the brook that bounds it,
    Because its silver voice
    Is like her bubbling laughter
    That made the world rejoice.

    I love the golden jonquils,
    Because she used to say,
    If soul could choose a color
    It would be clothed as they.

    I love the blue-gray iris,
    Because her eyes were blue,
    Sea-deep and heaven-tender
    In meaning and in hue.

    I love the small wild roses,
    Because she used to stand
    Adoringly above them
    And bless them with her hand.

    These were her boon companions.
    But more than all the rest
    I love the April lilac,
    Because she loved it best.

    Soul of undying rapture!
    How love's enchantment clings,
    With sorcery and fragrance,
    About familiar things!

  14. Garden Shadows

    by Bliss Carman

    When the dawn winds whisper
    To the standing corn,
    And the rose of morning
    From the dark is born,
    All my shadowy garden
    Seems to grow aware
    Of a fragrant presence,
    Half expected there.

    In the golden shimmer
    Of the burning noon,
    When the birds are silent,
    And the poppies swoon,
    Once more I behold her
    Smile and turn her face,
    With its infinite regard,
    Its immortal grace.

    When the twilight silvers
    Every nodding flower,
    And the new moon hallows
    The first evening hour,
    Is it not her footfall
    Down the garden walks,
    Where the drowsy blossoms
    Slumber on their stalks?

    In the starry quiet,
    When the soul is free,
    And a vernal message
    Stirs the lilac tree,
    Surely I have felt her
    Pass and brush my cheek,
    With the eloquence of love
    That does not need to speak!

  15. Here and Now

    by Bliss Carman

    Where is Heaven? Is it not
    Just a friendly garden plot,
    Walled with stone and roofed with sun,
    Where the days pass one by one,
    Not too fast and not too slow,
    Looking backward as they go
    At the beauties left behind
    To transport the pensive mind!

    Is it not a greening ground
    With a river for its bound,
    And a wood-thrush to prolong
    Fragrant twilights with his song,
    When the peonies in June
    Wait the rising of the moon,
    And the music of the stream
    Voices its immortal dream!

    There each morning will renew
    The miracle of light and dew,
    And the soul may joy to praise
    The Lord of roses and of days;
    There the caravan of noon
    Halts to hear the cricket's tune,
    Fifing there for all who pass
    The anthem of the summer grass!

    Does not Heaven begin that day
    When the eager heart can say,
    Surely God is in this place,
    I have seen Him face to face
    In the loveliness of flowers,
    In the service of the showers,
    And His voice has talked to me
    In the sunlit apple tree.

    I can feel Him in my heart,
    When the tears of knowledge start
    For another's joy or woe,
    Where the lonely soul must go.
    Yea, I learned His very look,
    When we walked beside the brook,
    And you smiled and touched my hand.
    God is love. . . I understand.

  16. The Garden of Saint Rose

    by Bliss Carman

    This is a holy refuge
    The garden of Saint Rose
    A fragrant altar to that peace
    The world no longer knows.

    Below a solemn hillside
    Within the folding shade
    Of overhanging beech and pine
    Its walls and walks are laid.

    Cool through the heat of summer,
    Still as a sacred grove,
    It has the rapt unworldly air
    Of mystery and love.

    All day before its outlook
    The mist-blue mountains loom,
    And in its trees at tranquil dusk
    The early stars will bloom.

    Down its enchanted borders
    Glad ranks of color stand,
    Like hosts of silent seraphim
    Awaiting love's command.

    Lovely in adoration
    They wait in patient line,
    Snow-white and purple and deep gold
    About the rose-gold shrine.

    And there they guard the silence,
    While still from her recess
    Through sun and shade Saint Rose looks down
    In mellow loveliness.

    She seems to say, "O stranger,
    Behold how loving care
    That gives its life for beauty's sake,
    Makes everything more fair!

    "Then praise the Lord of gardens
    For tree and flower and vine,
    And bless all gardeners who have wrought
    A resting place like mine!"

  17. The Tryst

    by John B. Tabb

    Potato was deep in the dark under ground,
    Tomato, above in the light.
    The little Tomato was ruddy and round,
    The little Potato was white.

    And redder and redder she rounded above,
    And paler and paler he grew,
    And neither suspected a mutual love
    Till they met in a Brunswick stew.

  18. Etiquette

    by John B. Tabb

    "I Long," said the new-gathered Lettuce,
    "To meet our illustrious guest."
    Cried the Caster, "Such haste
    Is in very bad taste:
    See first that you're properly dressed."

  19. Arbutus

    by Adelaide Crapsey

    Not Spring's
    Thou art, but her's,
    Most cool, most virginal,
    Winter's, with thy faint breath, thy snows
    Rose-tinged.

  20. The Garden Year

    by Sara Coleridge

    January brings the snow,
    Makes our feet and fingers glow.

    February brings the rain,
    Thaws the frozen lake again.

    March brings breezes, loud and shrill,
    To stir the dancing daffodil.

    April brings the primrose sweet,
    Scatters daisies at our feet.

    May brings flocks of pretty lambs
    Skipping by their fleecy dams.

    June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
    Fills the children's hands with posies.

    Hot July brings cooling showers,
    Apricots, and gillyflowers.

    August brings the sheaves of corn,
    Then the harvest home is borne.

    Warm September brings the fruit;
    Sportsmen then begin to shoot.

    Fresh October brings the pheasant;
    Then to gather nuts is pleasant.

    Dull November brings the blast;
    Then the leaves are whirling fast.

    Chill December brings the sleet,
    Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

  21. The Power of Botany

    by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott

    Selected from luxuriant groves,
    In folds of rich perfume,
    From wilds where skilful knowledge roves,
    And holds her conquering plume.

    In verdant meads, in spicy beds,
    In rich profusions found,
    The choicest aromatic, sheds
    Sweet exhalations round.

    Cull'd from the depths of deeper shades,
    Where thickest ivy twines,
    Where silent solitude pervades,
    There nature's gift reclines.

    These healthful herbs and roots are found
    In fields and gardens near,
    That praise impartial may resound
    To God who plac'd them there.

  22. Little Rain

    by Elizabeth Madox Roberts

    When I was making myself a game
    Up in the garden, a little rain came.

    It fell down quick in a sort of rush,
    And I crawled back under the snowball bush.

    I could hear the big drops hit the ground
    And see little puddles of dust fly round.

    A chicken came till the rain was gone;
    He had just a very few feathers on.

    He shivered a little under his skin,
    And then he shut his eyeballs in.

    Even after the rain had begun to hush
    It kept on raining up in the bush.

    One big flat drop came sliding down,
    And a ladybug that was red and brown

    Was up on a little stem waiting there,
    And I got some rain in my hair.

  23. The Garden Wasn't a Garden

    by Annette Wynne

    The garden wasn't a garden,
    It was a castle tall,
    The trees were mighty turrets,
    Ramparts, the garden wall.

    The breeze was the lone piper
    Playing a wild song,
    And Freddie was the Black Knight
    The afternoon long.

    Then dark came to the castle
    Around the piper's head,
    And Mother carried the Black Knight,
    And put him safe to bed.

  24. March and April

    by Annette Wynne

    Stay in, stay in, O flowers, stay in,
    Spring can't begin, it can't begin!
    For wild rough March rides all about,
    Don't put your little noses out;
    Small heads should keep safe under ground,
    Or March will catch you riding round.

    Come out, come out, O flowers, come out!
    Wild March is gone with rush and shout,
    And April's eager now to play,
    Come out, for March rode far away,
    And Spring is dancing all around!
    Come up, dear seeds, above the ground!

  25. Le Jardin

    by Oscar Wilde

    The lily’s withered chalice falls
    Around its rod of dusty gold,
    And from the beech-trees on the wold
    The last wood-pigeon coos and calls.

    The gaudy leonine sunflower
    Hangs black and barren on its stalk,
    And down the windy garden walk
    The dead leaves scatter,—hour by hour.

    Pale privet-petals white as milk
    Are blown into a snowy mass:
    The roses lie upon the grass
    Like little shreds of crimson silk.

  26. End of March

    by Annette Wynne

    What does the white world know
    Of flowers eager to grow
    Under the snow?
    Do the brown limbs care
    As they swing in the crisp clear air?

    But O, little seed, you know,
    Lying patiently so—
    Head underground,
    Only wait—the call will go round,
    You'll know the sound.
    And O, the snow must go,
    For you, little seed, are waiting to grow!

    O, the joy to lift the head
    Straight above the dark brown bed,
    O, the joy to feel the tread
    Of spring with skipping bare brave feet,
    Down the warm, wet village street.

    Ah, then the brown branches care
    And try to touch her hair;
    Streaming out in the new warm air,
    And O, the sky is glad, and every brook and glen
    For then,
    The world begins all over again!

  27. Poems About Garden Plants

  28. Summer Glory

    by Annette Wynne

    Is it true
    That you
    Are indeed
    The shriveled seed
    In spring I buried underground
    Not a bit of green around?

    Now you are
    Full of light
    As a star;
    Out of night
    Came this glory—grew to this
    Little piece of perfect bliss;
    O the joy to know
    I helped you grow;
    What mighty one would not be
    Small helper in such glorious ministry!

  29. Strawberries

    By John Townsend Trowbridge

    Little Pearl Honeydew, six years old,
    From her bright ear parted the curls of gold;
    And laid her head on the strawberry bed,
    To hear what the red-cheeked berries said.

    Their cheeks were blushing, their breath was sweet,
    She could almost hear their little hearts beat;
    And the tiniest, lisping, whispering sound
    That ever you heard, came up from the ground.

    "Little friends," she said, "I wish I knew
    How it is you thrive on sun and dew!"
    And this is the story the berries told
    To little Pearl Honeydew, six years old.

    "You wish you knew? And so do we.
    But we can't tell you, unless it be
    That the same Kind Power that cares for you
    Takes care of poor little berries, too.

    "Tucked up snugly, and nestled below
    Our coverlid of wind-woven snow,
    We peep and listen, all winter long,
    For the first spring day and the bluebird's song.

    "When the swallows fly home to the old brown shed,
    And the robins build on the bough overhead,
    Then out from the mold, from the darkness and cold,
    Blossom and runner and leaf unfold.

    "Good children, then, if they come near,
    And hearken a good long while, may hear
    A wonderful tramping of little feet,—
    So fast we grow in the summer heat.

    "Our clocks are the flowers; and they count the hours
    Till we can mellow in suns and showers,
    With warmth of the west wind and heat of the south,
    A ripe red berry for a ripe red month.

    "Apple blooms whiten, and peach blooms fall,
    And roses are gay by the garden wall,
    Ere the daisy's dial gives the sign
    That we may invite little Pearl to dine.

    "The days are longest, the month is June,
    The year is nearing its golden noon,
    The weather is fine, and our feast is spread
    With a green cloth and berries red.

    "Just take us betwixt your finger and thumb,
    And quick, oh, quick! for, see! there come
    Tom on all fours, and Martin the man,
    And Margaret, picking as fast as they can.

    "Oh, dear! if you only knew how it shocks
    Nice berries like us to be sold by the box,
    And eaten by strangers, and paid for with pelf,
    You would surely take pity, and eat us yourself!"

    And this is the story the small lips told
    To dear Pearl Honeydew, six years old,
    When she laid her head on the strawberry bed
    To hear what the red-cheeked berries said.

  30. The Voice of the Grass

    by Sarah Roberts Boyle

    Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
    By the dusty roadside,
    On the sunny hillside,
    Close by the noisy brook,
    In every shady nook,
    I come creeping, creeping, everywhere.

    Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere;
    All round the open door,
    Where sit the aged poor,
    Here where the children play,
    In the bright and merry May,
    I come creeping, creeping, everywhere.

    Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
    You can not see me coming,
    Nor hear my low, sweet humming,
    For in the starry night,
    And the glad morning light,
    I come, quietly creeping, everywhere.

    Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
    More welcome than the flowers,
    In summer's pleasant hours;
    The gentle cow is glad,
    And the merry birds not sad,
    To see me creeping, creeping, everywhere.

    Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
    When you're numbered with the dead,
    In your still and narrow bed,
    In the happy spring I'll come,
    And deck your narrow home,
    Creeping, silently creeping, everywhere.

    Here I come, creeping, creeping, everywhere;
    My humble song of praise,
    Most gratefully I raise,
    To Him at whose command
    I beautify the land,
    Creeping, silently creeping, everywhere.

  31. The Grass

    by Emily Dickinson

    The grass so little has to do, —
    A sphere of simple green,
    With only butterflies to brood,
    And bees to entertain,

    And stir all day to pretty tunes
    The breezes fetch along,
    And hold the sunshine in its lap
    And bow to everything;

    And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
    And make itself so fine, —
    A duchess were too common
    For such a noticing.

    And even when it dies, to pass
    In odors so divine,
    As lowly spices gone to sleep,
    Or amulets of pine.

    And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
    And dream the days away, —
    The grass so little has to do,
    I wish I were the hay!

  32. A Blade of Grass

    by Ruby Archer

    A blade of grass is bending
    Above the moaning stream,
    In sympathy is blending
    Where troubles only seem.

    The waters have no sorrow,
    Real anguish ne'er can know;
    And yet the grass will borrow
    And bear the waters' woe.

    It quivers with compassion
    And quakes with foreign fears,
    Then yields to loving passion,
    And weeps the torrent's tears.

  33. The Ivy Green

    by Charles Dickens

    O, a dainty plant is the ivy green,
    That creepeth o'er ruins old!
    Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
    In his cell so lone and cold.
    The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed.
    To pleasure his dainty whim;
    And the mouldering dust that years have made
    Is a merry meal for him.
    Creeping where no life is seen,
    A rare old plant is the ivy green.

    Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
    And a staunch old heart has he!
    How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
    To his friend, the huge oak tree!
    And slyly he traileth along the ground,
    And his leaves he gently waves,
    And he joyously twines and hugs around
    The rich mould of dead men's graves.
    Creeping where no life is seen,
    A rare old plant is the ivy green.

    Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
    And nations have scattered been;
    But the stout old ivy shall never fade
    From its hale and hearty green.
    The brave old plant in its lonely days
    Shall fatten upon the past;
    For the stateliest building man can raise
    Is the ivy's food at last.
    Creeping where no life is seen,
    A rare old plant is the ivy green.

  34. The Mushroom

    by Emily Dickinson

    The mushroom is the elf of plants,
    At evening it is not;
    At morning in a truffled hut
    It stops upon a spot

    As if it tarried always;
    And yet its whole career
    Is shorter than a snake's delay,
    And fleeter than a tare.

    'T is vegetation's juggler,
    The germ of alibi;
    Doth like a bubble antedate,
    And like a bubble hie.

    I feel as if the grass were pleased
    To have it intermit;
    The surreptitious scion
    Of summer's circumspect.

    Had nature any outcast face,
    Could she a son contemn,
    Had nature an Iscariot,
    That mushroom, — it is him.

  35. Fern Song

    by John B. Tabb

    Dance to the beat of the rain, little Fern,
    And spread out your palms again,
    And say, "Tho' the sun
    Hath my vesture spun,
    He had laboured, alas, in vain,
    But for the shade
    That the Cloud hath made,
    And the gift of the Dew and the Rain."
    Then laugh and upturn
    All your fronds, little Fern,
    And rejoice in the beat of the rain!

  36. The Withered Rose-Tree

    by Peter Burn

    I was walking through my garden,
    On a sunny morn in May,
    When I found a withered rose-tree,
    Careless hands had thrown away.

    So I took it, and re-set it—
    For its nature well I knew—
    And each day I fondly nurs'd it,
    Till it struck its roots and grew.

    Soon the rose-tree, once so fragile,
    Threw out branches fresh and strong,
    Oft as bow'r it served the linnet,
    Pouring to his mate his song.

    Summer came, in all its fulness,
    And the garden-bloom grew fair,
    But the rose-tree, crown'd with beauty,
    Shone the queen of flowers there.

  37. Garden Under Lightning (Ghost Story)

    by Leonora Speyer

    Out of the storm that muffles shining night
    Flash roses ghastly-sweet,
    And lilies far too pale.
    There is a pang of livid light,
    A terror of familiarity,
    I see a dripping swirl of leaves and petals
    That I once tended happily,
    Borders of flattened, frightened little things,
    And writhing paths I surely walked in that other life—
    Day?

    My specter-garden beckons to me,
    Gibbers horribly—
    And vanishes!

  38. Putting in the Seed

    by Robert Frost

    You come to fetch me from my work to-night
    When supper’s on the table, and we’ll see
    If I can leave off burying the white
    Soft petals fallen from the apple tree.
    (Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
    Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;)
    And go along with you ere you lose sight
    Of what you came for and become like me,
    Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
    How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
    On through the watching for that early birth
    When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,

    The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
    Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

  39. Thistle Down

    by Kate Slaughter McKinney

    I saw a little child one day
    Blowing some thistle down away.
    How light they flew! The wings of thought
    Grew weary as their course was sought,
    And e’en the boy, with heart as light,
    Sighed when he failed to trace their flight;
    But as by chance, out of the air,
    One fell upon his sunny hair.

    I saw the tiny sail unfurl,
    And faintly fan a slender curl.
    A fairy’s boat it seemed to be,
    And yet a pirate sailed the sea,
    And anchored on a golden wave
    That hid no evil deed—no grave.
    That thought! Did Heaven foresee the doom?
    From off his curl I shook the bloom.

    I know not where it chanced to fall,
    In garden, park, or castle wall;
    A desert’s sand may scorch its root,
    A crystal brook it may pollute;
    A different course from mine it took,
    And I the path at once forsook.
    I only know that summer day,
    Far from the child ’twas blown away.

  40. My Stalk of Corn

    by Ellen P. Allerton

    Just a single stalk of corn,
    Nothing more;
    Was there ever a stalk of corn
    Cherished so before?

    On the window, where the sun
    Shines at noon,
    And at eve, the tender light
    Of the moon.

    Half a pint or so of soil—
    Hardly that,
    Half enough to till the crown
    Of baby's hat.

    This is it has to feed its life;
    This is is all.
    Yet I love this stalk of corn
    Best of all.

    Best of all my pets in green
    Thou a vine,
    By geraniums scented sweet,
    Doth entwine.

    And I pet it tenderly,
    This stalk of corn—
    Turn it kindly toward the pane
    Every morn.

    How it thanks me for its life,
    How it grows!
    In such thrift, its gratitude
    How it shows.

    Still I watch and water it,
    Though I know,
    The slender store of food it has
    Is wasting slow.

    Never shall the breezes wane
    Its yellow hair;
    Never tassle crown its top,
    Nor golden ear.

    Just so much it has to feed,
    Then must die;
    Who knows but that it may be so
    With you or I?

    We know not our stock of life,
    Great or small;
    But the one who keepeth us
    Knoweth all.

    We live on, a careless life,
    Or fiercely toil.
    While our only store may be
    Half a pint of soil.

    Let us, like this stalk of corn,
    Do our best,
    And to him who loveth us
    Leave the rest.

  41. Garden Dusk

    by Grace Hazard Conkling

    This stillness made of azure
    And veiled with lavender
    Must be my daylight garden
    Where all the pigeons were!

    Blue dusk upon my eyelids,
    Your drifting moods disclose
    The moth that is a flower,
    The wings that are a rose.

    Make haste, exhale your sweetness,
    For you must vanish soon:
    The garden will forget you
    At rising of the moon.

    A glory dawns predestined
    Of old to banish you
    And bind you fast with rainbows
    In dungeons of the dew.

    And who will then remember
    Your cool and gossamer art?
    Ah, never moon may exile
    Your beauty from my heart!

  42. The Little Plant on the Window Speaks

    by Annette Wynne

    If you had let me stay all winter long outside,
    Long, long ago, I should have died.
    And so I'll live for you and keep
    A little summer while the others sleep—
    A little summer on your window-sill—
    I'll be your growing garden spot until
    The rough winds go away,
    And great big gardens call you out to play.

  43. Blue-Eyed Grass of May

    by Annette Wynne

    Star, high star, far in the blue,
    I have stars more near than you,
    Shining from the blue-eyed grass,
    Peeping at me as I pass.

    Star, high star, far in the blue,
    I wish that I could pick you, too,
    I know I'd love you better, star,
    If you were not so high and far.

    My little friendly stars are found
    Right close to me upon the ground;
    You shine all night, they shine all day-
    They are the blue-eyed grass of May!