by Robert Louis Stevenson
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.
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!