IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



Wheel round their nested colony, and there 

 Settling in ragged parliament, 

 Some stormy council hold in the high trees. 



ROBERT BRIDGES. 



The pinks along my garden walks 

 Have all shot forth their summer stalks, 

 Thronging their buds 'mong tulips hot, 

 And blue forget-me-not. 



Their dazzling snows forth-bursting soon 

 Will lade the idle breath of June: 

 And waken thro' the fragrant night 

 To steal the pale moonlight. 



The nightingale at end of May 

 Lingers each year for their display; 

 Till when he sees their blossoms blown, 

 He knows the spring is flown. 



June's birth they greet, and when their bloom 

 Dislustres, withering as his tomb, 

 Then summer hath a shortening day; 

 And steps slow to decay. 



ROBERT BRIDGES. 



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