God's Garden
The kiss of the sun for pardon, by Dorothy Frances Gurney (1858 - 1932)
Lines Written in Early Spring
I heard a thousand blended notes, To her fair works did Nature link Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The birds around me hopped and played, The budding twigs spread out their fan, If this belief from heaven be sent, by William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)
Thoughts in a Garden
How vainly men themselves amaze Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, No white nor red was ever seen When we have run our passions' heat, What wondrous life is this I lead! Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Such was that happy Garden-state How well the skilful gard'ner drew by Andrew Marvell (1621 - 1678)
The song of the birds for mirth,
One is nearer God's heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on Earth.
While in a groove I sate reclined
In that sweet mood where pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 't is my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
Their thoughts I cannot measure:-
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their uncessant labours see
Crown'd from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers and trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose!
And Innoence thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men:
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow:
Society is all but rude
To this delicious solitude.
So amorous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name:
Little, alas! they know or heed
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.
Love hither makes his best retreat:
The gods, that mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race;
Apollo hunted Daphne so
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Withdraws into its happiness;
The mind, that Ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets and combs its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.
While man there walk'd without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises 'twere in one,
To live in Paradise alone.
Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
And, as it works, th' industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!