TO WORK A GARDEN IS TO LOVE GOD

THE GLORY OF THE GARDEN

By Rudyard Kipling

OUR England is a garden that is full of stately views,

Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,

With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;

But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.

For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,

You’ll find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all,

The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dungpits and the tanks,

The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.

And there you’ll see the gardeners, the men and ‘prentice boys

Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise;

For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,

The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.

And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,

And some are hardly fit to truth with anything that grows; But 

they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,

For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.

Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made

By singing:--”Oh, how beautiful!” and sitting in the shade,

While better men than we go out and start their working lives 

At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives.

There’s not a pair of legs so thin, there’s not a head so thick,

There’s not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick,

But it can find some needful job that’s crying to be done,

For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.

Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,

If it’s only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;

And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,

You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.

Oh, Adam was a gardner, and God who made him sees

That half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees,

So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray

For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away!

And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away!

In remembrance of all the gardens we’ve created together.

May we come to the end of them... NEVER!

COME, TAKE A WALK WITH ME

OUT IN THE FIELDS WITH GOD

Anonymous

The little cares that fretted me

I lost them yesterday,

Among the fields above the sea,

Among the winds at play,

Among the lowing of the herds,

The rustling of the trees,

Among the singing of the birds,

The humming of the bees.

The foolish fears of what might happen,

I cast them all away
Among the clover-scented grass,

Among the new-mown hay,

Among the husking of the corn,

Where drowsy poppies nod

Where ill thoughts die and good are born--

Out in the fields with God.

"JUNE WANTS ME..."

KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE

By James Whitcomb Riley

~The Hoosier Poet~

Born October 7, 1849; died July 22 1916

Note:  Mr. Riley has used the Hoosier (Indiana) dialect 

in this poem, which may make it a challenge for some.

Apologies!

Tell you what I like the best--

'Long about knee-deep in June,

'Bout the time strawberries melts

On the vine,--some afternoon

Like to jes' git out and rest,

And not work at nothin' else!

Orchard's where I'd ruther be--

Needn't fence it in for me!--

Jes' the whole sky overhead,

And the whole airth underneath--

Sorto' so's a man kin breathe

Like he ort, and kindo' has

Elbow room to keerlessly

Sprawl out len'thways on the grass

Where the shadders thick and soft

As the kivvers on the bed

Mother fixes in the loft

Allus, when they's company!

Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there--

S'lazy, 'at you peek and peer

Through the wavin' leaves above,

Like a feller 'at's in love

And don't know it, ner don't keer!

Ever'thing you hear and see

Got some sorto' interest--

Maybe find a bluebird's nest

Tucked up there conveniently

Fer the boy 'at's ap' to be

Up some other apple-tree!

Watch the swallers scooting' past

'Bout as peert as you could ast;

Er the Bob-white raise and whiz

Where some other's whistle is.

Ketch a shader down below, 

And look up to find the crow--

Er a hawk--away up there,

'Peerantly froze in the air!--

Hear the old hen squawk, and squat

Over ever' chick she's got,

Suddent-like--and she knows where

That-air hawk is, well as you!--

You jes' bet yer life she do!--

Eyes a-glitterin' like glass,

Waitin' till he makes a pass!

* * * * * 

Plague! ef they ain't somepin' in

Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in

My convictions!--'long about

Here in June especially!--

Under some old apple-tree,

Jes' a-restin' through and through,

I could git along without

Nothin' else at all to do

Only jes' a-wishin' you

Wuz a-gittin' there like me,

And June was eternity!

Lay out there and try to see

Jes' how lazy you kin be!--

Tumble round and souse yer head

In the clover-bloom, er pull

Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes

And peek through it at the skies,

Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead;

Maybe smiling' back at you

I' betwixt the beautiful

Clouds o' gold and white and blue!--

Month a man kin rally love--

June, you know, I'm talkin' of!

March ain't never nothin' new!--

Aprile's altogether too

Brash for me! and May--I jes'

'Bominate its promises,--

Little hints o' sunshine and

Green around the timber-land--

A few promises, and a few

Chip-birds, and a sprout er two,--

Drap asleep, and it turns in

'Fore daylight and snows ag'in!--

But when June comes--Clear my throat

With wild honey!--Rench my hair

In the dew! and hold my coat!

Whoop out loud! and throw my hat!--

June wants me, and I'm to spare!

Spread them shaders anywhere

I'll git down and waller there,

And obleeged to you at that!

FOR LOVERS OF CHILDREN, A POEM

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

(Born February 27, 1807; died March 24, 1882)

Between the dark and the daylight,

When the light is beginning to lower,

Comes a pause in the days' occupation

That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me

The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,

And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,

Descending the broad hall stair,

Grave Alice and laughing Allegra,

And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence;

Yet I know by their merry eyes,

They are plotting and planning together

To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,

A sudden raid from the hall!

By three doors left unguarded

They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret,

O'er the arms and back of my chair;

If I try to escape, they surround me;

They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,

Their arms about me entwine,

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen*

In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine.

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,

Because you have scaled the wall,

Such an old mustache as I am

Is not a match for you all?

I have you fast in my fortress,

And will not let you depart,

But put you down into the dungeon

In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,

Yes, forever and a day,

Till the wall shall crumble to ruin,

And moulder in dust away.

*The Mouse Tower is a stone tower on a small island in the Rhine, outside Bingen am Rhein, Germany.

You can hear this poem being read by Urgelt just by copying and pasting this on Youtube:  Urgelt reading The Children's Hour.  My friends, I strongly urge you to not only read and listen to this sublime poem yourself, but to read such poems to your children, your grandchildren, introducing them to the rich world of the imagination through moving images and lilting rhythms.