These lines are a great contrast to the dignified versification of The Old Garden, by Margaret Deland, a garden around which a great city has grown.
"Around it is the street, a restless arm
That clasps the country to the city's heart."
No one could read this poem without knowing that the author is a true garden lover, and knowing as well that she spent her childhood in a garden.
Another American poet, Edith Thomas, writes exquisitely of old gardens and garden flowers.
"The pensile Lilacs still their favors throw.
The Star of Lilies, plenteous long ago,
Waits on the summer dusk, and faileth not.
The legions of the grass in vain would blot
The spicy Box that marks the garden row.
Let but the ground some human tendance know,
It long remaineth an engentled spot."
Let me for a moment, through the suggestion of her last two lines, write of the impress left on nature through flower planting. "The garden long remaineth an engentled spot." You cannot for years stamp out the mark of a garden; intentional destruction may obliterate the garden borders, but neglect never. The delicate flowers die, but some sturdy things spring up happily and seem gifted with everlasting life. Fifteen years ago a friend bought an old country seat on Long Island; near the site of the new house, an old garden was ploughed deep and levelled to a lawn. Every year since then the patient gardeners pull up, on this lawn, in considerable numbers, Mallows, Campanulas, Star of Bethlehem, Bouncing-bets and innumerable Asparagus shoots, and occasionally the seedlings of other flowers which have bided their time in the dark earth. Traces of the residence of Sir Walter Raleigh in Ireland may still be seen in the growth of richly perfumed wall-flowers which he brought from the Azores. The Affane Cherry is found where he planted it, and some of his Cedars are living. The summer-house of Yew trees sheltered him when he smoked in the garden, and in this garden he planted Tobacco. Near by is the famous spot where he planted what were then called Virginian Potatoes. By that planting they acquired the name of Irish Potatoes.
I have spoken of the Prince Nurseries in Flushing; the old nurserymen left a more lasting mark than their Nurseries, in the rare trees and plants now found on the roads, and in the fields and gardens for many miles around Flushing. With the Parsons family, who have been, since 1838, distributors of unusual plants, especially the splendid garden treasures from China and Japan, they have made Flushing a delightful nature-study.
In the humblest dooryard, and by the wayside in outlying parts of the town, may be seen rare and beautiful old trees: a giant purple Beech is in a laborer's yard; fine Cedars, Salisburias, red-flowered Horse-chestnuts, Japanese flowering Quinces and Cherries, and even rare Japanese Maples are to be found; a few survivors of the Chinese Mulberry have a romantic interest as mementoes of a giant bubble of ruin. The largest Scotch Laburnum I ever saw, glorious in golden bloom, is behind an unkempt house. On the Parsons estate is a weeping Beech of unusual size. Its branches trail on the ground in a vast circumference of 222 feet, forming a great natural arbor. The beautiful vernal light in this tree bower may be described in Andrew Marvell's words:—
"Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade."