The gardener of the world

Great is the sun, and wide he goes 

Through empty heaven without repose;

And in the blue and glowing days

More thick he showers his rays.

Through closer still the blinds we pull 

To keep the shady parlour cool,

Yet he will find a chink or two 

To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-vlad

He, through the broken edge of the tiles

Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around

He bares to all garden ground,

And sheds a warm and glittering look

Among the Ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along with the blue,

Round the bright air with footing true,

To please the child, to paint the rose,

The gardener of the word, goes