Pale January Lay In Its Cradle Day

Tis True Among Fields And Woods I Sing, Aloof From Cities--that My Poor Strains Were Born, Like The Simple Flowers You Bring, In English Meadows And English Lanes.

So, Timely You Came, And Well You Chose, You Came When Most Needed, My Winter Rose. From The Snow I Pluck You, And Fondly Press Your Leaves 'twixt The Leaves Of My Leaflessness.

From Sunny Woof And Cloudy Weft Fell Rain In Sheets; So, To Myself I Hummed These Hazard Rhymes, And Left The Learned Volume On The Shelf.

The Glory Of Gardening: Hands In The Dirt, Head In The Sun, Heart With Nature. To Nurture A Garden Is To Feed Not Just On The Body, But The Soul. Share The Botanical Bliss Of Gardeners Through The Ages, Who Have Cultivated Philosophies To Apply To Their Own - And Our Own - Lives: Show Me Your Garden And I Shall Tell You What You Are.

Pale January Lay In Its Cradle Day By Day Dead Or Living, Hard To Say.