Two months ago, this space was mired in mud
As bricks and planks lay scattered all around;
Today, some rose shrubs, spare in leaf and bud,
Stand stiff and silent—stuck in aching ground.

Still, here, no hint of landscapes I adore:
The tickling riches, thickened tapestries
Of arching easy branches yielding more
Than mere parts’ sums—bold, fluent fantasies!

Of course, this garden's young; perhaps some grace
Will steal on it in several seasons’ time.
But analyze this abiotic space:
Can splendor spring from such a bald design?

What dare we hope, when men make nature pose
And press such plodding duties on the rose?