MY HERBARY

I know a little garden very old,

High-walled, with wandering paths of greenest box;

Beyond the doorway lies the rolling wold,

The open moorland, and the Brimham Rocks.

Here find a home all nigh-forgotten herbs;

The sage and rosemary nod side by side;

A giant lavender no pruning curbs,

With us each year the honesties abide.

Under a hawthorn, ruby-gemmed in May,

A bank of marjorams lie at their ease;

Here, lad's-love sigh their fragrant hearts away,

Whilst rippling lieds of water never cease.

Beside the cherry-tree the balsams flower,

The rue and mint bloom out a life-time meek;

A pleasant place it is at sunrise hour,

When sportful finches wing in hide-and-seek.

And where the aged, moss-grown sundial lies,

The peacock pert unfolds his wheel-rim tail,

Showing a hundred jewelled Argus eyes:

With harsh, shrill cry he bids the day “All hail.”

More is he fitted for the fountained sward

Than for my herbary of butterflies;

No! I proclaim the lovelier throstle, Lord,

The only one my simples recognise.