Thomas Edward Brown

Thomas Edward Brown (1830-1897)

 

My Garden

 

A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!

Rose plot,

Fringed pool,

Ferned grot--

The veriest school Of peace; and yet the fool

Contends that God is not--

Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?

Nay, but I have a sign;

'Tis very sure God walks in mine.

John Keats

John Keats (1795-1821)

 

To Autumn

 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

Read more: John Keats

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

 

Days

 

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,

Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,

And marching single in an endless file,

Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.

To each they offer gifts after his will,

Bread, kingdoms, stars, or sky that holds them all.

I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,

Forgot my morning wishes, hastily

Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day

Turned and departed silent. I, too late,

Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

 

Maud; A Monodrama (from Part I) (excerpt)

 

Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown,

Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,

And the musk of the rose is blown.

Read more: Alfred Lord Tennyson


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