The Garden

What is this that stirs astray,
With sap and soil and febrile play?
Here the seasons constantly grow anew,
In fragrant sheaves, in stunning hue.

That basks upon the drenching earth,
Framed in the synesthetic worth;
An essence rendered, fragility speaks,
Dancing light upon the leaves.

This is the garden’s silent bliss,
Where all the rhythms find their kiss;
Within a quiet chamber, life shall weave,
And bloom amidst its magic cleave.

— D.H. Lawrence

• DH Lawrence