The gardener does not love to talk, <br />He makes me keep the gravel walk; <br />And when he puts his tools away, <br />He locks the door and takes the key. <br /> <br />Away behind the currant row <br />Where no one else but cook may go, <br />Far in the plots, I see him dig <br />Old and serious, brown and big. <br /> <br />He digs the flowers, green, red and blue, <br />Nor wishes to be spoken to. <br />He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, <br />And never seems to want to play. <br /> <br />Silly gardener! summer goes, <br />And winter comes with pinching toes, <br />When in the garden bare and brown <br />You must lay your barrow down. <br /> <br />Well now, and while the summer stays <br />To profit by these garden days <br />O how much wiser you would be <br />To play at Indian wars with me!<br /><br />Robert Louis Stevenson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-gardener/
