Let others plant vast gardens. I am content With tiny little plots--a pansy bed, A row of gardenias, some white, some red, And to a sunny spot, Daphne is sent With tiny corsages of rarest scent. Through every season by my garden led I wake to be surprised, turning my head To meet the splendor Midas must have lent.
Ah, gay woodbine against the stony wall, And goldenrod, I thought you'd gone to seed, The purple aster sways,--its color fills The patio. The orange tree blooms, and all The roses bare an opening bud, nor heed That frost creeps down the Pasadena hills.