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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=540794" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Time And The Garden</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=540794" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The spring has darkened with activity. <br>The future gathers in vine, bush, and tree: <br>Persimmon, walnut, loquat, fig, and grape, <br>Degrees and kinds of color, taste, and shape. <br>These will advance in their due series, space <br>The season like a tranquil dwelling-place. <br>And yet excitement swells me, vein by vein: <br>I long to crowd the little garden, gain <br>Its sweetness in my hand and crush it small <br>And taste it in a moment, time and all! <br>These trees, whose slow growth measures off my years, <br>I would expand to greatness. No one hears, <br>And I am still retarded in duress! <br>And this is like that other restlessness <br>To seize the greatness not yet fairly earned, <br>One which the tougher poets have discerned— <br>Gascoigne, Ben Jonson, Greville, Raleigh, Donne, <br>Poets who wrote great poems, one by one, <br>And spaced by many years, each line an act <br>Through which few labor, which no men retract. <br>This passion is the scholar’s heritage, <br>The imposition of a busy age, <br>The passion to condense from book to book <br>Unbroken wisdom in a single look, <br>Though we know well that when this fix the head, <br>The mind’s immortal, but the man is dead.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Yvor+Winters">Yvor Winters</a></strong></div>