Helper and more than helper! In this sphere
You are supreme and I subordinate.
Yours was the artist's eye with vision clear
That made imagined colour-schemes appear,
While in the garden winter held his state.
Early and late
You planned, and even when the days were drear,
You saw a wealth of fragrant blossoms here,
Which at your asking Nature would create.

And we have toiled together, you and I,
Through autumn and through winter that outstayed
Its time; but we have made
A garden fair enough to gratify
Our hearts. It shall be fairer by and by;
For were perfection thus to be attained,
If nothing more remained
But to sit idle and enjoy,
Perfection soon would cloy,
And all be lost as soon as all was gained.

Better, so long as we are left alive
Upon this earth, to strive
After a beauty more entrancing still,
Each year attempting to contrive
Fresh beauty. So, God helping us, we will;
For those who climb the hill,
Though steep and rough and toilsome be the way,
Enjoy delights unknown to folk who stray
Along the easy road, content to stare
At distant heights instead of climbing there.
The almost level rill
Of the flat plain is not a tenth as fair
As the white water tumbling through the air
In the the rock-fastness of a mountain gill.

Yes, we have toiled together, you and I.
Can we forget the labour we went through,
As the rose-garden out of chaos grew
In that October which was like July?
Good work, although now hidden from the eye,
Like much good work that other workers do,
Whereof but few
See aught save the result when all is done;
It is not in the power of every one
To see the finished thing and guess
The work that laid the foundation for success.
The nearer perfect the result, the more
Was the unnoticed toil that went before;
The nearer perfect the result, the less
Will it the volume of that toil express.

But we have had reward, and have it still,
Joy of possession, joy of labour done,
Joy in the rain and pleasure in the sun,
The joy of observation, and the thrill
Of seeing Nature patiently fulfil
Our hopes and our ambitions, one by one;
Or if in certain things
She hath not given full measure of success,
Yet, as a balm for disappointment's stings,
In others past all our imaginings
She hath been lavish in her graciousness.

This garden is our own,
And all the beauty it contains hath grown
From our endeavour, Nature lending aid.
Sweet is the fruit to them that sowed the seed,
And beauty thus by patient labour made
Is to the maker beautiful indeed
Beyond all beauty which by wealth alone
May in a lordlier pleasance be displayed.