One gardener's observations, discoveries and random thoughts whilst simultaneously worshipping and dallying in a Cape Cod garden. "A garden," said Ralph Waldo Emerson, "is like those pernicious machineries which catch a man's coatskirt or his hand, and draw in his arm, his leg and his whole body to irresistable destruction."

Posts tagged ‘poetry in the garden’

While Ye May

To The Virgins, to Make Much of Time

by Robert Herrick

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
  Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day

  To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
  The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,

  And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
  When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst

  Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
  And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
  You may for ever tarry.