OF GARDENS

The days are sad, it is the Holy tide:
Be dusky mistletoes and Hollies strown,
Sharp as the spear that pierced His sacred side,
Red as the drops upon His thorny crown;
No haggard Passion and no lawless Mirth

Fright off the solemn Muse,-tell sweet old tales,
Sing songs as we sit brooding o'er the hearth,
Till the lamp flickers, and the memory fails.

FREDERICK TENNYSON

Of Gardens

AND because the Breath of Flowers is farre Sweeter

in the Aire (where it comes and goes like the Warbling of Musick) than in the hand, therefore nothing is more fit for that delight than to know what be the Flowers and Plants that doe best perfume the Aire. Roses Damask and Red are fast Flowers of their Smells, so that you may walke by a whole Row of them and find Nothing of their Sweetnesse; yea, though it be in a Morning's Dew. Bayes likewise yeeld no Smell as they grow; Rosemary little; nor Sweet-Marjoram. That which above all Others yeelds the Sweetest Smell in the Aire is the Violet; specially the White-double Violet, which comes twice a Yeare, about the middle of Aprill, and about Bartholomew-tide. Next to that is the Muske-Rose; then the Strawberry-Leaves dying, with a most Excellent Cordiall Smell. Then the Flower of the Vines; it is a little dust, like the dust of a Bent, which growes upon the Cluster in the first

THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN

comming forth. Then Sweet Briar. Then WallFlowers, which are very Delightfull, to be set under a Parler or Lower Chamber Window. Then Pincks and Gilly-Flowers, specially the Matted Pinck and Clove Gilly-Flower. Then the Flowers of the Lime tree. Then the Honey-suckles, so they be somewhat a-farre off. Of Beane Flowers I speake not, because they are Field Flowers. But those which perfume the Aire most delightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being Trodden upon and Crushed, are Three: that is, Burnet, Wild-Time, and Water-Mints. Therefore you are to set whole Allies of them, to have the Pleasure when you walke or tread.

FRANCIS BACON

Thoughts in a Garden

OW vainly men themselves amaze

HOW

To win the palm, the oak, or bays,

And their incessant 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!

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men:

THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN

Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow :
Society is all but rude

To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
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.

When we have run our passions' heat,
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.

What wondrous life is this I lead!
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.

THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
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.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
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.

Such was that happy Garden-state

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.

How well the skilful gard'ner drew
Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run:

THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN

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!

ANDREW MARVELL