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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE GARDEN-MAKER, by                    
First Line: An old slat bonnet hid her face
Last Line: Gave gladly back the smile of god.
Subject(s): Flowers; Gardens & Gardening; Plants; Vegetables; Planting; Planters


AN old slat bonnet hid her face;
A faded print that had no grace
Hid sharp shoulders and broad flat waist;
Weeding the bed where the beets were placed.

The Spring breeze gently stirred the reeds
As she pulled her garden free of weeds,
Then loosened up the good, rich sod
Along the rows of pease in pod.

And where her brown hands touched the earth
The thrifty, green shoots soon had birth;
She understood the plants like friends —
On this a garden much depends.

The weatherbeaten paling fence,
The garden's trusty old defence,
Was softened by a row of flowers, —
They helped her through hard morning hours.

A climbing white rose waved its arm
In bride-like welcome to the farm;
She loved to see it all a-blow
It minded her of the long ago.

She hoed the rows of shooting corn
Till she heard a neighbor's dinner-horn;
With cruel longing she saw the face
Of the dead and gone in empty space.

And the time when her table had been well spread
With her own good making of pies and bread,
And her loved ones gathered about the board
Touched not the food till they thanked the Lord.

Tears filled a furrow on her cheek,
The rising sobs made her bend and weep,
But the spring breeze helped to dry her eyes,
And she cut rhubarb for a batch of pies.

She was very weary and sat to rest
Beside the flowers she loved the best;
The bitter memories would not depart,
So she prayed for balm for a stricken heart.

There was crying need that the work be done
Before the set of the present sun.
Old and lonely, her thoughts were drear,
Her strength had passed with the passing year.

For now the vigor left her stroke
And the poor old bended back seemed broke;
She paused and rested on her hoe
And saw her garden wreathed aglow.

She hung upon the fence her hoe,
And took within the house her woe,
And soon there was a row of pies
To gladden any urchin's eyes.

And this they did; for down the lane
A truant playing fisher came,
Who traded off a two-pound fish
For one tremendous toothsome dish.

And from the gossip of the lad
She learned that old Mis' Beggs was bad,
And after Master Tommy's lunch
Of her white roses made a bunch;

And sent them down to Widow Beggs
Along with three brand-new-laid eggs;
And then put on fresh calico
And hunted up more seeds to sow.

Tears oft dimmed her fading sight:
Her garden healed her bitter plight,
Inhaled with sighs its sweet perfume,
Renewed her faith in God each June.

For though her heart with pain was racked
She never had for mercies lacked;
Her losses paid with grief and pain
In other ways came back again.

. . . . . . . .

The flowers looked up and asked for rain
And bowed in thanks whene'er it came —
In all her garden the grateful sod
Gave gladly back the smile of God.





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