Explore "The Gardener" by Robert Louis Stevenson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The gardener does not love to talk, / He makes me keep the gravel walk; / And when he puts his tools away, / He locks the door and takes the key.
Away behind the currant row / Where no one else but cook may go, / Far in the plots, I see him dig, / Old and serious, brown and big.
He digs the flowers, green, red and blue, / Nor wishes to be spoken to.
He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, / And never seems to want to play.
Silly gardener! summer goes, / And winter comes with pinching toes, / When in the garden bare and brown / You must lay your barrow down.
Well now, and while the summer stays, / To profit by these garden days, / O how much wiser you would be / To play at Indian wars with me!