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The Gardener, Robert Louis Stevenson

27 Nov

The Gardener, Robert Louis Stevenson

The gardener does not love to talk
He makes me keep the gravel walk;
And when he puts his tools away,
He locks the door and keeps the key.
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Away behind the current row
Where no one else but cook may go,
Far in the plots I see him dig,
Old and serious, brown and big.
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He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue,

He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue,
Nor wishes to be spoken to.
He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,
And never seems to want to play.
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Silly gardener! summer goes,
And winter comes with pinching toes,
When in the garden bare and brown
You must lay your barrow down.

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Well now, and while the summer stays,
To profit by these garden days,
O how much wiser you would be
To play at Indian wars with me!

-Robert Louis Stevenson

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