The Poetry Corner

A Garden Song.

By Henry Austin Dobson

(To W. E. H.) 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 Alcinos! 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!