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.