IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own, 

 Making all kindness registered and known; 

 Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child in- 



deed, 



Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, 

 Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. 



And O most constant, yet most fickle place, 

 Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost 



show 



To them who look not daily on thy face; 

 Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, 

 And say'st, when we forsake thee, " Let them 



go!" 



Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race 

 Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, 

 And travel with the year at a soft pace. 



O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep 

 Hath been -so friendly to industrious hours; 

 And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep 

 Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, 

 And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers; 

 Two burning months let summer overleap, 

 And, coming back with Her who will be ours, 

 Into thy bosom we again shall creep. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



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