As, musing, through the garden walks I go,
Amidst a blaze of flowers — those sweet earth-flames —
I often feel it is my loss to know
So little of their names.

I know the lily and I know the rose ,
Lad's-love and wallflower — very little more;
Nothing but what the humble cottage grows
In plots before the door.

The peppermint that scents the shady nook,
The honeysuckle tangling round the porch, —
Yes, and the ancient thyme our grandams took
On Sabbath to the church

I know the gorse and heather of the moors,
The blue-bell and the daisy of the leas,
Its purple cousin of the cliffy shores,
That loves the salt sea-breeze.

But myriad beauties of the garden, and
Those breathers of the glass-encompass'd air,
I cannot name — can only, gazing, stand,
As in a thinking prayer.

And yet, 'tis well. If we can name a thing,
We name it, and pass on to what is next;
But, having not this substitute to bring,
Are by the wonder fixt

When Heaven grows dim, and faith seeks to renew
Its image of our everlasting dower,
I know no argument so sweet as through
The bosom of a flower.

A wicket-gate to Heaven — whereof death
Is the great entrance, closed to mortal eyes —
And, from the little portals, that sweet breath,
The air of paradise!

For surely it is spirit that entreats
Sweet recognition of the spirit, thus;
Something mysteriously divine, that meets
Divinity in us!

Among the garden flowers, bee-like, I glide;
And, though their names to me seal'd letters prove,
They have a speech that never is denied
To hearts that simply — love.