My garden blossoms pink and white, 
      A place of decorous murmuring
Where I am safe from August night
     And cannot feel the knife of spring. 

And I may walk the pretty place
    Before the curtsying hollyhocks
And laundered daisies, round of face—
    Good little girls, in party frocks. 

My trees are amiably arrayed
    In pattern on the dappled sky, 
And I may sit in filtered shade
    And watch the tidy years go by. 

And I may amble pleasantly 
   And hear my neighbors list their bones
And click my tongue in sympathy, 
   And count the cracks in paving stones. 

My door is grave in oaken strength, 
    The cool of linen calms my bed, 
And there at night I stretch my length
     And envy no one but the dead.