THE POOR MAN'S GARDEN. 
All day upon some weary task 
He toileth with good will; 
And back he comes, at set of sun, 
His garden-plot to till. 
The rich man in his garden walks, 
And ’neath his garden trees ; 
Wrapped in a dream of other things, 
He seems to take his ease. 
One moment he beholds his flowers, 
The next they are forgot: 
He eateth of his rarest fruits 
As though he ate them not. 
It is not with the poor man so ;— 
He knows each inch of ground, 
And every single plant and flower 
That grows within its bound. 
He knows where grow his wall-flowers, 
And when they will be out; 
His moss-rose, and convolvulus 
That twines his pales about. 
BO 
