this is the garden:colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing
strong silent greens serenely lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
this is the garden:pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

this is the garden. time shall surely reap
and on death's blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured,as among
the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.

-- e e cummings

Anyone else have a favourite garden-related poem? (I suspect this one isn't actually about gardening, but hey, poetry is like that...)

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Comment by Pete Russell on June 19, 2010 at 6:58am
Thank you Sean.

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