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Yet always sows too thick From packets scattered on a patch With here a batch of poppy, there a batch Of the low candytuft or scabious talk That country children call Pincushions, with their gift Of accurate observance and their swift Naming more vivid than the botanist So the good gardener will sow his drift Of larkspur and forget-me-not To fill blank space, or recklessly to pick; And gay nasturtium writhing up a fence Splotching with mock of sunlight sunless days. When latening summer brings the usual mist... Consider these with thankfulness and wonder, Nor ever ask why that same God If it was He who made the flow'rs, made weeds ... Still there are moments when the shadows fall And the low sea of flowers, wave on wave, Spreads to the pathway from the rosy wall Saying in coloured silence, "Take our all; You gave to us, and back to you we gave, You dreamed us, and we made your dream come true. We are your vision, here made manifest. You sowed us, and obediently we grew, But sowing us, you sowed more than you knew And something not ourselves has done the rest." The gardener half artist must depend On that slight chance, that touch beyond control Which all his paper planning will transcend; He knows his means but cannot rule his end; He makes the body: who supplies the soul? [SPRING] In Nature's cycle blessed once a year, Not long enough to savour, but more dear For all the anguish of its brevity. Next Meeting: Wednesday, April 24th, at 7:00 p.m. Tony Scammell Editor