"His heart was in his garden..."

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 bone-dust, cutworms, grubs, As though all Nature held no higher strain; Or, if he spoke of Art, he made the theme Flow through box-borders, 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 walks and shrubs.