Poems (Cromwell)/The Gardener
For works with similar titles, see The Gardener.
THE GARDENER
At evening, I have seen him wander in And out between the hedges; On the moss he treads, where shadows spin A misty web. He skirts the edges Indistinct of heliotrope and jessamine.
I wonder what he does, studious And furtive in the gloom. Is he covering the tremulous Young plants that have no spreading bloom When night is cool, to keep them young and luminous?
Or is he mutely speculating there Upon the flowers themselves; His love observing them through the veiled air As plain as when he weeds and delves At noon, but with more secret and more wistful care ?
I call the garden mine. This votary Who loves it makes it his; A poet owns his legend. If I were To ask the garden whose it is, It would reply: "My master is this gardener."