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. 
