There's never frost nor blight nor weeds,
Nor neighbor's chickens, cats or dogs,
To ruin all the tender seeds
That flourish in the catalogues;
The humblest vine that's planted there
Blossoms without the slightest care.
There are no withered stalks to see,
No pitiful attempts to thrive,
No shrub that struggles desperately
To catch the sun and stay alive.
In catalogues the larkspur seems
To match the gardener's fondest dreams.
The red geranium is strong,
Its clump of blossom full and round,
No windstorm ever comes along
To sweep the cosmos to the ground,
No youngster ever bats a ball
Among the roses, straight and tall.
I turn the pages o'er and o'er
And see the pansies dark as wine,
And think, as I have thought before,
These are superior to mine;
In my poor garden, never yet
Has bloomed such lovely mignonette.
Since pansies have the storms to face
And men must battle day by day,
They cannot wear the charm and grace
Their printed catalogues display;
Life is much sterner than it looks
And scars are seldom shown in books.
Here on the Earth
Here is where the blows are struck,
Here is where the wrong is done,
Here are toilers in the muck;
Here beneath the shining sun,
Pain and hurt and sin abide,
Here is where our souls are tried.
What's beyond I cannot say,
Save my faith that all is well;
There the wrongs are cast away,
There in peace the angels dwell,
But this life on earth and sea
Holds so much that need not be.
I would not remain afar
Thinking only of my soul;
Here where hungry children are,
Here where hatred mars the scroll,
Thought and time and strength I'd give
Bettering this life we live.