Though My Verse But Roam

Exclusiveness In A Garden Is A Mistake As Great As It Is In Society.

Life Seems Like A Haunted Wood, Where We Tremble And Crouch And Cry.

Though My Verse But Roam The Air And Murmur In The Trees, You May Discern A Purpose There, As In Music Of The Bees.

We Come From The Earth, We Return To The Earth, And In Between We Garden.

A Garden That One Makes Oneself Becomes Associated With One’s Personal History And That Of One’s Friends, Interwoven With One’s Tastes, Preferences And Character And Constitutes A Sort Of Unwritten Autobiography.