GARDEN SONG 



BY AUSTIN DOBSON 



Here in this sequestered close 

 Bloom the hyacinth and rose, 

 Here beside the modest stock 

 Flaunts the flaring hollyhock ; 

 Here, without a pang, one sees 

 Ranks, conditions and degrees. 



All the seasons run their race 

 In this quiet resting-place ; 

 Peach and apricot and fig 

 Here will ripen and grow big ; 

 Here is store and overplus, 

 More had not Alcinous. 



Here, in alleys cool and green, 

 Far ahead the thrush is seen ; 

 Here along the southern wall 

 Keeps the bee his festival ; 

 All is quiet else afar 

 Sounds of toil and turmoil are. 



Here be shadows large and long ; 

 Here be spaces meet for song ; 

 Grant, O garden-god, that I, 

 Now that none profane is nigh, 

 Now that mood and moment please, 

 Find the fair Pierides. 



