On a summer's morn, waiting there,
Beneath the tint of yellow glare;
Lies the gardener's unending task,
Remove from soil each spear of grass.
To weed, in jest lay rest to weed,
Prepare for ground the birth of seed.
Turn the dirt and furrow the rows,
Then lean and loafe on hoe and stare
And marvel at the earth laid bare;
While all the while the weed it knows,
What the gardener may only suppose.