IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



To a Garden 



Friend, in thy mountain-side demesne, 

 My plain-beholding, rosy, green 

 And linnet-haunted garden ground, 

 Let still the esculents abound. 

 Let first the onion flourish there, 

 Rose among roots, the maiden-fair, 

 Wine scented and poetic soul 

 Of the capacious salad bowl. 

 Let thyme (The mountaineer to dress 

 The tinier birds) and wading cress, 

 The lover of the shallow brook, 

 From all my plots and borders look. 

 Nor crisp and ruddy radish, nor 

 Pease-cods for the child's pinafore 

 Be lacking; nor of salad clan 

 The last and least that ever ran 

 About great nature's garden beds. 

 Nor thence be missed the speary heads 

 Of artichoke; nor thence the bean 

 That gathered innocent and green 

 Outsavours the belauded pea. 



These tend, I prithee ; and for me, 

 Thy most long-suffering master, bring 



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