THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN.
Ah yes, the poor man’s garden!
It is great joy to me,
This little, precious piece of ground
Before his door to see!
The rich man has his gardeners,—
His gardeners young and old;
He never takes a spade in hand,
Nor worketh in the mould.
It is not with the poor man so,—
Wealth, servants, he has none;
And all the work that’s done for him
Must by himself be done.
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 convolulus
That twines his pales about.
He knows his red sweet-williams;
And the stocks that cost him dear,—
That well-set row of crimson stocks,
For he bought the seed last year.
And though unto the rich man
The cost of flowers is nought,
A sixpence to a poor man
Is toil, and care, and thought.
And here is his potatoe-bed,
All well-grown, strong, and green;
How could a rich man’s heart leap up
At anything so mean!
But he, the poor man, sees his crop,
And a thankful man is he,
For he thinks all through the winter
How rich his board will be.
And how his merry little ones
Beside the fire will stand,
Each with a large potatoe
In a round and rosy hand.
The rich man has his wall-fruits,
And his delicious vines;
His fruit for every season!
His melons and his pines.
The poor man has his gooseberries;
His currants white and red;
His apple and his damson tree,
And a little strawberry-bed.
A happy man he thinks himself,
A man that’s passing well,—
To have some fruit for the children,
And some besides to sell.
Around the rich man’s trellissed bower
Gay, costly creepers run;
The poor man has his scarlet-beans
To screen him from the sun.
And there before the little bench,
O’ershadowed by the bower,
Grow southern-wood and lemon-thyme,
Sweet-pea and gilliflower;
And pinks and clove-carnations,
Rich-scented side by side;
And at each end a holly-hock,
With an edge of London-pride.
And here comes the old grandmother,
When her day’s work is done;
And here they bring the sickly babe
To cheer it in the sun.
And here, on Sabbath-mornings,
The good man comes to get
His Sunday nosegay, moss-rose bud,
White pink, and mignonette.
And here, on Sabbath-evenings,
Until the stars are out,
With a little one in either hand,
He walketh all about.
For though his garden-plot is small,
Him doth it satisfy;
For there’s no inch of all his ground
That does not fill his eye.
It is not with the rich man thus;
For though his grounds are wide,
He looks beyond, and yet beyond,
With soul unsatisfied.
Yes! in the poor man’s garden grow
Far more than herbs and flowers;—
Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind,
And joy for weary hours.