My Virtual Reading Room

In The Garden

I sometimes get weary of people, and weary of being polite;
I sometimes grow tired of the dull man, and sometimes am bored by the bright.
And then when my nerves are a-tingle I walk in the yard that is ours,
And I thank the good Lord for the comfort of songsbirds and blue skies and flowers.

I never grow tired of the martens which circle about overhead;
I never grow weary of robins--there is nothing about them I dread.
I smile when I see them returning, I sigh when at last they depart,
And perhaps it's because they are never vindictive, or petty, or smart.

And the trees don't expect to be talked to.  I can lie there and dream in the shade,
And not have to think up an answer to some dreary question that's made.
So I often slip into my garden when I'm weary of hearing things said,
And thank the good Lord for my roses and trees and the birds overhead.
 
(Edgar A. Guest)