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?