Dorigen 6 The Garden

It was the sixth day of the month of May,

A morning fresh and bright and with an air

That would lighten any care.

They walked to a garden that was near

And there they took both food and drink,

And so they stayed the daylight hours,

For May had painted with soft showers

This garden full of trees and flowers.

The gardener’s hands had worked so well 

That no place could compare to this

Unless it were in paradise itself.

The scented blooms and colours bright

Were enough to lighten any heart

That ever was born unless some sickness

Or some deep sorrow held it firm and fast,

So full they were of beauty and delight.

Around this garden was a wall

And all along grew roses tall

And fruit trees trailed their arms along the stones

With pears and apples growing on the sleeves.

The paths led in and out of shrubberies

Where young folk lost themselves among the leaves
Perhaps by chance or by design, I think.

The flowers of the field were doubled here,

Primrose, cowslip, celandine, all yellow,

And flowers of the hedgerow, violets,

And purple clover from the meadow

Where the sleepy poppies grow.

The colours always match together

For no flower clashes with another.

On one side next to the broad path

Were mint and thyme and rosemary

And many herbs of scented leaf

With names all marked in clear relief

With characters carved upon the wood

For those who touched and felt and smelled the herbs,

As they pressed them in their fingers,

But saw them not at all.

Around a fountain were more roses

Pink and yellow and red,

With buds that promised more to come

Throughout the long, warm summer days.

The lifting breeze would blow the spray

On to the path and make the women laugh

And run from the shower in the gentle wind.

Lawns there were all neatly cut

In shaded lines of green, one dark, one light

As lawns must look when mown with skill.

The gardener’s art was everywhere

In every bush and every flower,

But the gardener’s hand was never seen.

He must have come when all folk were away.

For magic must be natural not forced.

No sight was there of mattock, spade or hoe.

All looked as if it grew by chance

As if the flowers, every one,

Had sprung up with the rain and sun.
   

Tall trees there were of oak and ash and beech.

Trees that tell us the short time that we live,

For trees we plant we never see grow big.