The Choice

When skies are blue and days are bright A kitchen-garden's my delight, Set round with rows of decent box And blowsy girls of hollyhocks. Before the lark his Lauds hath done And ere the corncrake's southward gone; Before the thrush good-night hath said And the young Summer's put to bed. The currant-bushes' spicy smell, Homely and honest, likes me well, The while on strawberries I feast, And raspberries the sun hath kissed. Beans all a-blowing by a row. Of hives that great with honey go, With mignonette and heaths to yield The plundering bee his honey-field. Sweet herbs in plenty, blue borage And the delicious mint and sage, Rosemary, marjoram, and rue, And thyme to scent the winter through. Here are small apples growing round, And apricots all golden-gowned, And plums that presently will flush And show their bush a Burning Bush. Cherries in nets against the wall, Where Master Thrush his madrigal Sings, and makes oath a churl is he Who grudges cherries for a fee. Lavender, sweet-briar, orris. Here Shall Beauty make her pomander, Her sweet-balls for to lay in clothes That wrap her as the leaves the rose. Take roses red and lilies white, A kitchen garden's my delight; Its gillyflowers and phlox and cloves, And its tall cote of irised doves.