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GARDENERS |
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The Gardener
The gardener does not love to talk,
he makes me keep the gravel walk;
And when he puts his tools away,
he locks the door and takes the key.
Away behind the currant row
where no one else but cook may go,
far in the plots, I see him dig,
old and serious, brown and big.
He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue,
nor wishes to be spoken to.
He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,
and never seems to want to play.
Silly gardener! Summer goes,
and Winter comes with pinching toes,
when in the garden bare and brown
you must lay your barrow down.
Well now, and while the Summer stays,
to profit by these garden days,
how much wiser you would be
to play at Indian wars with me!
Robert Louis Stevenson
Gardener's Prayer
Say from about midnight until three o'clock
in the morning,
but, You see, it must be gentle and warm
so that it can soak in;
Grant that at the same time it would not rain on
campion, alyssum, helianthus, lavendar, and others which
You in Your infinite wisdom know
are drought-loving plants
I will write their names on a bit of paper
if you like
And grant that the sun may shine
the whole day long,
but not everywhere (not, for instance, on the
gentian, plantain lily, and rhododendron)
and not too much;
That there may be plenty of dew and little wind,
enough worms, no lice and snails, or mildew, and that
once a week thin liquid manure and guano
may fall from Heaven.
Amen.
Karel Capek
 
Page created on April, 01, 2003
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