IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



He passed the garden where, snow white and red, 

 I tended the flowers which gave us our bread, 



And watered my lilies and roses; 

 He passed and repassed both early and late, 

 And lingering, often would lean on the gate 



While I tied for him one of my posies. 



Though thou seest them not with the bodily eye, 

 The language of flowers much better than I, 

 I know that thou knowest, my brother. 



Violets then golden daffodils 



Which the light of the sun like a winecup fills 



Tall tulips like flames upspringing 

 Golden-crown wall-flowers bright as his locks 

 Marigolds balsams and perfumed stocks 

 Whose scent's like a blackbird's singing. 

 MATHILDE BLIND. 



(Renunciation.) 



I planted a rose tree in my garden, 



In early days when the year was young; 



I thought it would bear me roses, roses, 



While nights were dewy and days were long. 



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