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Katharine Tynan - A Gardener-Sag
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Here in the garden-bed, 
Hoeing the celery, 
Wonders the Lord has made 
Pass ever before me.
I see the young birds build, 
And swallows come and go, 
And summer grow and gild, 
And winter die in snow. 

Many a thing I note,
And store it in my mind, 
For all my ragged coat 
That scarce will stop the wind. 
I light my pipe and draw,
And, leaning on my spade, 
I marvel with much awe 
O`er all the Lord hath made. 

Now, here`s a curious thing: 
Upon the first of March 
The crow goes house-building
In the elm and in the larch. 
And be it shine or snow, 
Though many winds carouse, 
That day the artful crow 
Begins to build his house. 

But then­the wonder`s big ! 
If Sunday fell that day,
Nor straw, nor screw, nor twig, 
Till Monday would he lay. 
His black wings to his side, 
He`d drone upon his perch, 
Subdued and holy-eyed 
As though he were in church. 

The crow`s a gentleman 
Not greatly to my mind, 
He`ll steal what seeds he can, 
And all you hide he`ll find. 
Yet though he`s bully and sneak, 
To small birds, bird of prey, 
He counts the days of the week, 
And keeps the Sabbath Day.
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