IN PRAISE OF GARDENS 



But I I saw that garden, with its one treasure 

 The tiny moss-rose, tiny even by childhood's 



measure. 



And the long morning shadow of the rusty laurel, 

 And a boy and a girl beneath it, flushed with 



a childish quarrel. 



She wept for her one little bud; but he, out- 



reaching 

 The hand of brotherly right, would take it for 



all her beseeching; 

 And she flung her arms about him, and gave like 



a sister, 

 And laughed at her own tears, and wept again 



when he kissed her. 



So the rose is mine long since, and whenever I 



find it 

 And drink again the sharp sweet scent of the 



moss behind it, 

 I remember the tears of a child, and her love 



and her laughter, 

 And the morning shadows of youth, and the night 



that fell thereafter. 



HENRY NEWBOLT. 



[164] 



