COME, let us make a garden, mate of mine,
A patch of rich brown earth the Spring will green;
I, with a spade and fork; you, with a line
And plan, will set it out for heaven’s bright sheen
To cover, when the warm days come again.
Come, now the snows are melting, and the soil
Is drinking down the draughts of winter’s pain;
Let us dig in our hopes with jocund toil!
The smell of fresh-turned loam will give us strength,
The work will brace our souls for greater tasks;
Our plan will bring us days of happy length,
And take from us the tribute summer asks.
Come, now the stubborn frost is yielding fast,
And bathe our bodies in the softer airs,
Which blow from kinder climes now winter’s past,
And sleet and hail are gone to their white lairs.
With hopes of lovely blooms to gather soon,
Come, make a garden, mate of mine, with me,
So we may go rejoicing in warm June,
And all the glories of God’s bounty see.
Come, mate of mine, and make a garden bright
In my sad heart, for snows are melting there,
Bring to it all your joys of warmth and light,
And bid it bloom, and never more be bare.