GARDENERS' CHRONICLE 



OF AMERICA 



DEVOTED TO THE SCIENCE OF FLORICULTURE AND HORTICULTURE 



ADOPTED AS THE OFFICIAL ORGAN OF 

 THE NATIONAL ASSOCIATION OF GARDENERS 



\'ol. XVIII. 



AU(;UST, 1914. 



Xn. 4. 



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Horv vainly men themselves amaze. 

 To Tvin the palm, the oal(, or bays: 

 And their incessant labors see 

 Crorvned from some single herb, or tree. 

 Whose short and narron>-verged shade 

 Does prudently their toils upbraid; 

 While all the flowers and trees do close. 

 To weave the garlands of repose. 



Fair Quiet, have I found thee here. 

 And Innocence, thy sister dear? 

 Mistaken long, I sought you then 

 In busy companies of men. 

 Your sacred plants, if here below. 

 Only among the plants will grow 

 Society is all but rude 

 To this delicious solitude. 



By Andrew Marvell.'" 



What Wondrous life is this I lead! 

 Ripe apples drop upon my head; 

 The luscious clusters of the vine 

 Upon my mouth do crush their wine; 

 The nectarine and curious peach 

 Into my hands themselves do reach; 

 Stu'ublmg on melons as I pass, 

 Insnared witli flowers, I fall on grass. 



Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less 

 Withdraws into its happiness — ■ 

 The mind, that ocean where each l(ind 

 Does straight its own resemblance find: 

 Yet it creates, transcending these. 

 Far other worlds and other seas; 

 Annihilating all that's made 

 To a green thought m a green shade. 







■ — I 



'JtitS. 



No white nor red was ever seen 

 So armorous as that lovely green. 

 Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. 

 Cut in these trees their mistress's name. 

 Little, alas! they know or heed. 

 How far these beauties her exceed! 

 Fair trees! where'er your harl( I wound. 

 No name but your own he found. 



When we have run our passion's heat. 

 Love hither makes his best retreat. 

 The gods, who mortal beauty chase. 

 Still in a tree did end their race. 

 Apollo hunted Daphne so, 

 Only that she might laurel grow; 

 And Pan did after Syrinx speed. 

 Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 



Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 

 Or at some fruit-trees's mossy root. 

 Casting the body's vest aside. 

 My soul into the boughs does glide: 

 There like a bird it sits and sings. 

 Then whets and claps its silver wings. 

 And till prepared for longer flight. 

 Waves in its plumes the various light. 



Such Was the happy garden stale. 

 While man there walked without a male; 

 After a place so pure and sweet. 

 What other help could yet be meet? 

 But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 

 To Wander solitary there: 

 Two paradises are m one. 

 To live m paradise alone. 



How Well the skilful gardener drew 

 Of flowers and herbs, this dial new! 

 Where from above the milder sun 

 Does through a fragrant zodiac run: 

 And as it worlfs, th' industrious bee 

 Computes its time as Well as We. 

 How such sweet and wholesome hours 

 Be reckoned, hut with herbs and flowers. 



'''An English poet and satirist, died in London, 1678 



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