Dream a Little Dream Of England

When searching through poetry I often find myself drawn into the Regency and Victorian eras of the great bards. One of my greatest wishes is to go to England some day and walk where, they walked and see their muses, if still there. It gives me goosebumps to think of it. Byron, Tennyson, Bronte, Shelley, Keats and the list goes on and on - These were the greatest wordsmiths of all time. Their words jumped from heart to pen and pen to paper and still rebound in the center of every romantic moment ever seen on this earth.

I have great reservations that wish will ever become reality for me. If I did make it to England I have no doubt I would see London but since my husband isn't exactly a literary enthusiast, he would allow a stroll down a lane for a brief moment and then off to the nearest pub to get a taste of the local suds and soak in the atmosphere of the European sporting scene. The British pilgrimage that I have always dreamt of would have to be made alone and I will never do that and risk hurting his feelings. Of course we could always make a side-trip of old castles and such. I think that could be a compromise so it is not totally out of the question to do Europe one day. In the meantime I am happy to have the internet to scroll through the worlds of some of my favorite poets. Learning of their lives really makes me happy to be living in a time when we are and not in their day. Of course it was their realities of the times that made for inspiring verse so I guess it is the whole 'Careful What You Wish For' scenario. With that I am going to leave today's ponderings with a famous poem by Rudyard Kipling .... The Glory Of The Garden

Our England is a garden that is full of stately views, Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues, With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by; But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye. For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall, You’ll find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all, The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dungpits and the tanks, The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks. And there you’ll see the gardeners, the men and ’Prentice boys Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise; For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds, The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words. And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose, And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows; But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam, For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come. Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made By singing:—“Oh, how beautiful!” and sitting in the shade, While better men than we go out and start their working lives At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives. There’s not a pair of legs so thin, there’s not a head so thick, There’s not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick, But it can find some needful job that’s crying to be done, For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one. Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders, If it’s only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders; And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden, You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden. Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees That half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees, So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away! And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away!

My digital art with this poem Click on the picture to go to my artwork page for instructions to purchase