THE GARDEN MADE FOR ME

My love and I a garden made— So early in the spring, When larks begin to sing— Frail violets a carpet laid, Of tender blues, for my sweet maid, When we were gardening. I did not see the garden grow— Fate turned me far astray, Ere summer’s happy ray The garden kissed, and all the glow Of fragrant hours I did not know— My summer’s days were grey. I did not pick sweet blooms for her, To make a crown to grace Her head, and bonny face; I wandered in a world so bare, No flower of love perfumed the air, No blossoms could I trace. Some lovers sow, some lovers reap, And others never see The gardens that might be; Still, though I might not reap, I keep, In dreams of her, the mem’ry deep Of gardens made for me.