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.