BEYOND the gates thou gav’st a field to till;

I have a larger on my window-sill.

A farm, d’ye say? Is this a farm to you,

Where for all woods I spay one tuft of rue,

And that so rusty, and so small a thing,

One shrill cicada hides it with a wing;

Where one cucumber covers all the plain;

And where one serpent rings himself in vain

To enter wholly; and a single snail

Eats all and exit fasting to the pool?

Here shall my gardener be the dusty mole.

My only ploughman the . . . mole.

Here shall I wait in vain till figs be set,