Two months ago, this space was mired in mud
And bricks and planks lay scattered all around;
Today, some rose shrubs, spare in leaf and bud,
Stand stiff and silent—stuck in aching ground.
Here spring no hints of landscapes I adore:
The tickling riches—thickened tapestries
Of arching easy branches, yielding more
Than mere parts’ sums—bold, fluent fantasies!
These gardens still are young; perhaps some grace
Will steal on them in several seasons’ time;
Yet analyze this abiotic space:
Can splendor spring from such a sad design?
What dare we hope, when men make nature pose
And press such plodding duties on the rose?