On Books

Photo Credit - Olga Pogodina @Unsplash.com 

“Who hath a book has friends at hand

And gold and gear at his command,

And rich estates if he but look,

Are held by him who hath a book.

Who hath a book has but to read

And he may be king indeed;

His kingdom is his inglenook;

All this is his who hath a book

                                Wilber Dick Nesbitt

                                1871-1927

The Rose of the World

Let Freedom Ring

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?

For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,

Mournful that no new wonder may betide,

Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,

And Usna’s children died.

We and labouring world are passing by:

Amid men’s souls, that waver and give place

Like the pale waters in their wintry race,

Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,

Lives on this lonely face.

Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode:

Before you were, or any hearts to beat,

Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;

He made the world to be a grassy road

Before her wondering feet.

                             

                                   William Butler Yates 1865-1939

 

Garden Verse - A Winter Eden

A Winter Eden



A winter garden in an alder swamp,

Where conies now come out to sun and romp,

As near a paradise as it can be

And not melt snow or start a dormant tree.



It lifts existence on a plane of snow

One level higher than the earth below,

One level nearer heaven overhead,

And last year’s berries shining scarlet red.



It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beast

Where he can stretch and hold his highest feast

On some wild apple tree’s young tender bark,

What well may prove the year’s high girdle mark.



So near to paradise all pairing ends:

Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends,

Content with bud-inspecting. They presume

To say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.



A feather-hamner gives a double knock.

This Eden day is done at two o’clock.

An hour of winter day might seem too short

To make it worth life’s while to wake and sport.

                                    Robert Frost

The Rose has a Powerful Virtue

The Rose has one powerful virtue to boast above all the flowers of the field:

When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost,

Still how sweet a perfume it will yield.

                                      By Isaac Watts

                                      English theologian and hymn writer

                                      (1674-1748)

GARDEN VERSE - The Gardener

THE GARDENER

The gardener does not love to talk,
He makes me keep the gravel walk;
And when he puts his tools away,
He locks the door and takes the key.

Away behind the currant row
Where no one else but cook may go,
Far in the plots, I see him dig,
Old and serious, brown and big.

He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue,
Nor wishes to be spoken to.
He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,
And never seems to want to play.

Silly gardener! summer goes,
And winter comes with pinching toes,
When in the garden bare and brown
You must lay your barrow down.

Well now, and while the summer stays,
To profit by these garden days,
O how much wiser you would be
To play at Indian wars with me!

                                       Robert Louis Stevenson

GARDEN VERSE - What is a Garden by Arkell

What is a garden?

            Goodness knows!

You’ve got a garden,

            I suppose:

To one it is a piece of ground

For which some gravel must be found.

To some, those seeds that must be sown,

To some a lawn that must be mown.

To some a ton of Cheddar rocks;

To some it means a window box;

To some, who dare not pick a flower-

A man, at eighteen pence an hour.

To some, it is a silly jest

About the latest garden pest;

To some, a haven where they find

Forgetfulness and peace of mind. . .

What is a garden

            Large or small

‘Tis just a garden

            After all.

Reginald Arkell

“What Is a Garden”

Green Fingers (1935)

GARDEN VERSE - Love of Garden by Helps

"As for our love of gardens, it is the last refuge of art in the minds and souls of many Englishmen; if we did not care for gardens, I hardly know what in the way of beauty we should care for.

                                                                                          Sir Arthur Helps
                                                                                          Companion of My Solitude (1851)