My Garden

My garden holds no vegetables,

Though I have planted seeds

In furrowed rows and tiny hills

And hoed out all the weeds.

My garden holds no vegetables,

For every time they sprout,

My little fellow takes his rake

And puts each one to rout.

Sometimes he gathers up the spoils

And brings them in a pan;

"Your bejtables are ready now",

Proclaims my little man.

I gather him against my heart

Where, hourly, he grows;

My garden hold no vegetables,

But just a precious rose.

~ Author Helen Louise Williams ~