The Gardener

I would have failed at gar­den­ing,
if ever I’d have tried it.
My hands could not have learned to prune;
my heart could not abide it.

At thin­ning time my will would fail;
no pulling up for me.
By Sum­mer­time my weeds would own
the aspect of a tree.

It takes a heart with stub­born­ness
to cau­ter­ize the beds.
A sin­gle-mind­ed will­ing­ness
to pluck off nature’s heads.

My heart was nev­er quite so strong;
I fear such use of pow­er.
I couldn’t kill so many buds
to make the per­fect flower.