Gladys Cromwell: The Gardener

The Gardener

At evening, I have seen him wander in
And out hetween the hedges ;
On the moss he treads, where shadows spin
A misty web. He skirts the edges
Indistinct of heliotrope and jessamine.

I wonder what he does, studious
And furtive in the gloom.
Is he covering the tremulous
Young plants that have no spreading bloom
When night is cool, to keep them joung and
luminous?

Or is he mutely speculating there
Upon the flowers themselves ;
His love observing them through the veiled air
As plain as when he weeds and delves
At noon, but with more secret and more wistful
care?

I call the garden mine. This votary
Who loves it makes it his ;
A poet owns his legend. If I were
To ask the garden whose it is.
It would reply : “My master is this gardener.”

Cromwell, Gladys
[1885-1919]
The Gardener
(Poem)

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

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