But You, Oh Gardener, Poet That You

Summer Makes A Silence After Spring.

See The Last Orange Roses, How They Blow / Deeper And Heavier Than In Their Prime, / In One Defiant Flame Before They Go.

I Loved You When Love Was Spring, And May, Loved You When Summer Deepened Into June, And Now When Autumn Yellows All The Leaves.

Of Course I Should Love To Throw A Toothbrush Into A Bag, And Just Go, Quite Vaguely, Without Any Plans Or Even A Real Destination. It Is The Wanderlust.

The Farmer And The Gardener Are Both Busy, The Gardener Perhaps The More Excitable Of The Two, For He Is More Of The Amateur, Concerned With The Creation Of Beauty Rather Than With The Providing Of Food. Gardening Is A Luxury Occupation; An Ornament, Not A Necessity, Of Life.