The Garden

In the garden that is called mine,
There is a flow’ry field of thyme.
There blooms and weeps a scented morn,
Where every leaf displays its form.

The boughs of trees in silent sway
Meet soft and low and far away;
Then fall and rise, creating peace,
And answer in the wind’s release.

Here linger dew upon each hedge,
And through the blossoms keep edge
Of scents alive—no words in vain,
Just love in every tangled vein.

• Edward Thomas