| TWO brothers, Oakes and Oliver, | |
| Two gentle men as ever were, | |
| Would roam no longer, but abide | |
| In Linndale, where their fathers died, | |
| And each would be a gardener. | 5 |
| |
| “Now first we fence the garden through, | |
| With this for me and that for you,” | |
| Said Oliver.—“Divine!” said Oakes, | |
| “And I, while I raise artichokes, | |
| Will do what I was born to do.” | 10 |
| |
| “But this is not the soil, you know,” | |
| Said Oliver, “to make them grow: | |
| The parent of us, who is dead, | |
| Compassionately shook his head | |
| Once on a time and told me so.” | 15 |
| |
| “I hear you, gentle Oliver,” | |
| Said Oakes, “and in your character | |
| I find as fair a thing indeed | |
| As ever bloomed and ran to seed | |
| Since Adam was a gardener. | 20 |
| |
| “Still, whatsoever I find there, | |
| Forgive me if I do not share | |
| The knowing gloom that you take on | |
| Of one who doubted and is done: | |
| For chemistry meets every prayer.” | 25 |
| |
| “Sometimes a rock will meet a plough,” | |
| Said Oliver; “but anyhow | |
| ’Tis here we are, ’tis here we live, | |
| With each to take and each to give: | |
| There’s no room for a quarrel now. | 30 |
| |
| “I leave you in all gentleness | |
| To science and a ripe success. | |
| Now God be with you, brother Oakes, | |
| With you and with your artichokes: | |
| You have the vision, more or less.” | 35 |
| |
| “By fate, that gives to me no choice, | |
| I have the vision and the voice: | |
| Dear Oliver, believe in me, | |
| And we shall see what we shall see; | |
| Henceforward let us both rejoice.” | 40 |
| |
| “But first, while we have joy to spare | |
| We’ll plant a little here and there; | |
| And if you be not in the wrong, | |
| We’ll sing together such a song | |
| As no man yet sings anywhere.” | 45 |
| |
| They planted and with fruitful eyes | |
| Attended each his enterprise. | |
| “Now days will come and days will go, | |
| And many a way be found, we know,” | |
| Said Oakes, “and we shall sing, likewise.” | 50 |
| |
| “The days will go, the years will go, | |
| And many a song be sung, we know,” | |
| Said Oliver; “and if there be | |
| Good harvesting for you and me, | |
| Who cares if we sing loud or low?” | 55 |
| |
| They planted once, and twice, and thrice, | |
| Like amateurs in paradise; | |
| And every spring, fond, foiled, elate, | |
| Said Oakes, “We are in tune with Fate: | |
| One season longer will suffice.” | 60 |
| |
| Year after year ’twas all the same: | |
| With none to envy, none to blame, | |
| They lived along in innocence, | |
| Nor ever once forgot the fence, | |
| Till on a day the Stranger came. | 65 |
| |
| He came to greet them where they were, | |
| And he too was a Gardener: | |
| He stood between these gentle men, | |
| He stayed a little while, and then | |
| The land was all for Oliver. | 70 |
| |
| ’Tis Oliver who tills alone | |
| Two gardens that are now his own; | |
| ’Tis Oliver who sows and reaps | |
| And listens, while the other sleeps, | |
| For songs undreamed of and unknown. | 75 |
| |
| ’Tis he, the gentle anchorite, | |
| Who listens for them day and night; | |
| But most he hears them in the dawn, | |
| When from his trees across the lawn | |
| Birds ring the chorus of the light. | 80 |
| |
| He cannot sing without the voice, | |
| But he may worship and rejoice | |
| For patience in him to remain, | |
| The chosen heir of age and pain, | |
| Instead of Oakes—who had no choice. | 85 |
| |
| ’Tis Oliver who sits beside | |
| The other’s grave at eventide, | |
| And smokes, and wonders what new race | |
| Will have two gardens, by God’s grace, | |
| In Linndale, where their fathers died. | 90 |
| |
| And often, while he sits and smokes, | |
| He sees the ghost of gentle Oakes | |
| Uprooting, with a restless hand, | |
| Soft, shadowy flowers in a land | |
| Of asphodels and artichokes. | 95 |
