His heart was in his garden; but his brain Wandered at will among the fiery stars. Bards, heroes, prophets, Homers, Hamilcars, With many angels stood, his eye to gain; The devils, too, were his familiars: And yet the cunning florist held his eyes Close to the ground, a tulip bulb his prize, And talked of tan and bonedust, cutworms, grubs, As though all Nature held no higher strain; Or, if he spoke of art, he made the theme Flow through boxborders, turf, and flower tubs Or, like a garden engine's, steered the stream, Now spouted rainbows to the silent skies, Now kept it flat and raked the walls and shrubs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BEARS AT RASPBERRY TIME by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE BIRTH OF VENUS by HAYDEN CARRUTH REVIEW by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ITALIAN PICTURES: COSTA MAGIC by MINA LOY THE ROOM OF MIRRORS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |