Poetry
Wind In My Garden WITHIN my garden square and small Surrounded by a grey old wall Grows nothing either rich or rare That would reward a gardener's care.
For all my flowers are chosen less
For charm and grace than hardiness, Such sturdy shrubs as can withstand- The swift assaults of wind and sand— A vandal league that from the west
Beats o'er the bents to blast my best
And tenderest shoots of green, and whips
The hapless heads off helpless slips.
With winds that warp and sand that stings Small chance have I of growing things
Of delicate or shapely strain ; To see them writhe and twist is pain Alike to plant and to beholder. Wherefore I choose only the bolder, Hardier breeds that balk the storms,
And bear mid buffetings their forms,
Scarred but unbroken to their close, A tardy but triumphant rose. And often as I watch the feud
Of striving wind and stubborn wood I feel like my cotoneaster
That miscreant winds can never master ;
For trimming as 'we do our sails Shrewdly to ward the wrath of gales, We bring in crabbed dour despite Our meagre wreaths at last to light,
To prove to all who care to know it
Our humble kin to Rose and Poet. J. M. SMITH.
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