MY GARDEN.
IF I could put my woods in song,
And tell what 's there enjoyed,
All men would to my gardens throng,
And leave the cities void.
In my plot no tulips blow,—
Snow-loving pines and oaks instead;
And rank the savage maples grow
From spring's faint flush to autumn red.
My garden is a forest ledge
Which older forests bound;
The banks slope down to the blue lake-edge,
Then plunge to depths profound.
