Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE PORCH, by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE PORCH, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Across my neighbor's waste of whins
Last Line: My modest patch of garden.
Alternate Author Name(s): Dobson, Austin
Subject(s): Neighbors


BY A SUMMER-DAY STOIC

(TO ARTHUR MUNBY)

'Cultivons notre jardin.' -- VOLTAIRE.

ACROSS my Neighbour's waste of whins
For roods the rabbit burrows;
You scarce can see where first begins
His range of steaming furrows;
I am not sad that he is great,
He does not ask my pardon;
Beside his wall I cultivate
My modest patch of garden.

I envy not my Neighbour's trees;
To me it nowise matters
Whether in east or western breeze
His 'dry-tongued laurel patters.'
Me too the bays become; but still,
I sleep without narcotics,
Though he should bind his brows at will
With odorous exotics.

Let Goodman Greenfat, glad to dine,
With true bon-vivant's benison,
Extol my Neighbour's wit and wine --
His virtue and his venison:
I care not! Still for me the gorse
Will blaze about the thicket;
The Common's purblind pauper horse
Will peer across my wicket;

For me the geese will thread the furze,
In hissing file, to follow
The tinker's sputtering wheel that whirs
Across the breezy hollow;
And look, where smoke of gipsy huts
Curls blue against the bushes --
That little copse is famed for nuts,
For nightingales and thrushes!

But hark! I hear my Neighbour's drums!
Some dreary deputation
Of Malice or of Wonder comes
In guise of Adulation.
Poor Neighbour! Though you 'call the tune,'
One little pinch of care is
Enough to clog a whole balloon
Of aura popularis;

Not amulets, nor epiderm
As tough as armadillo's,
Can shield you if Suspicion worm
Between your poppied pillows;
And though on ortolans you sup,
Beside you shadowy sitters
Can pour in your ungenial cup
Unstimulating bitters.

Let Envy crave, and Avarice save;
Let Folly ride her circuit;
I hold that -- on this side the grave --
To find one's vein and work it,
To keep one's wants both fit and few,
To cringe to no condition,
To count a truthful friend or two --
May bound a man's ambition.

Swell, South-wind, swell my Neighbour's sails;
Fill, Fortune, fill his coffers;
If Fate has made his role the whale's,
And me the minnow's offers,
I am not sad that he is great;
He need not ask my pardon;
Beside his wall I cultivate
My modest patch of garden.





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