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.