The Mower Against Gardens

I see a garden full of space, With summers dependent on its grace And flowers that flaunt within the light, Fair frail things, elusive to the sight.

But underneath such beauty, stark, A hidden fear doth make its mark. So, let not men suppose they gain, What is bereft of Nature’s reign.

I handle blades of quality rare, In fury lain against the airs. To shake the soil where flowers grow And root the wild where nothing’s low.

For she makes peace, she may employ, A simple glade to grant us joy. But all these gardens that we make Are shadows cast by falsehood’s wake.

• Andrew Marvell