The Garden

I had a Garden when a child; I kept it all in order; ’Twas full of flowers as it could be, And London-pride was its border.

And soon as came the pleasant Spring, The singing birds built in it; The Blackbird and the Throstle-cock, The Woodlark and the Linnet.

And all within my Garden ran A labyrinth-walk so mazy; In the middle there grew a yellow Rose; At each end a Michaelmas Daisy.

I had a tree of Southern Wood, And two of bright Mezereon; A Peony root, a snow-white Phlox, And a bunch of red Valerian;

A Lilac tree, and a Guelder-Rose; A Broom, and a Tiger-lily; And I walked a dozen miles to find The true wild Daffodilly.

I had Columbines, both pink and blue, And Thalictrum like a feather; And the bright Goat’s-beard, that shuts its leaves Before a change of weather.

I had Marigolds, and Gilliflowers, And Pinks all Pinks exceeding; I’d a noble root of Love-in-a-mist, And plenty of Love-lies-bleeding.

I’d Jacob’s Ladder, Aaron’s Rod, And the Peacock-Gentianella; I had Asters, more than I can tell, And Lupins blue and yellow.

I set a grain of Indian Corn, One day in an idle humour, And the grain sprung up six feet or more, My glory for a summer.

I found far off in the pleasant fields, More flowers than I can mention; I found the English Asphodel, And the spring and autumn Gentian.

I found the Orchis, fly and bee, And the Cistus of the mountain; And the Money-wort, and the Adder’s tongue Beside an old wood fountain.

I found within another wood, The rare Pyrola blowing: For wherever there was a curious flower I was sure to find it growing.

I set them in my garden beds, Those beds I loved so dearly, Where I laboured after set of sun, And in summer mornings early.

O my pleasant garden-plot!— A shrubbery was beside it, And an old and mossy Apple-tree, With a Woodbine wreathed to hide it.

There was a bower in my garden-plot, A Spiræa grew before it; Behind it was a Laburnum tree, And a wild Hop clambered o’er it.

Ofttimes I sat within my bower, Like a king in all his glory; Ofttimes I read, and read for hours, Some pleasant, wondrous story.

I read of Gardens in old times, Old, stately Gardens, kingly, Where people walked in gorgeous crowds, Or for silent musing, singly.

I raised up visions in my brain, The noblest and the fairest; But still I loved my Garden best, And thought it far the rarest.

And all among my flowers I walked, Like a miser ’mid his treasure; For that pleasant plot of Garden ground Was a world of endless pleasure.