My Gardener

A homely friend is a goodly friend:
     You may like him none the less—
And it may be even more in the end—
     For all his ugliness!

I have a gardener grimy and old,
     Hunchbacked, with warty skin;
His sprawling legs are a sight to behold,
     Splay-footed, crooked, and thin.

He works for his hoard, he could ask no less,
     For he has no dainty cheer;
He sleeps on the earth, and his dingy dress
     Is changed but once a year.

But he is so patient, and withal
     So faithful in his place,
With a kind of tenderness I recall
     His poor, pathetic face.

And I find, what scorn could never find,
     Such beauty in his eyes
That all his gnarls and his grimy rind
     Are lost in my glad surprise.

Silently working in dry or wet,
     Among the flowers he is seen:
It is Ugliness, the dwarf and pet
     Of Flora, the maiden queen!

Old fellow! there’s not one lovely thing
     In my garden but breathes your praise;
And I should be truly ashamed to sing,
     And forget you in my lays.

But, since you are only a great gray toad,
     This lesson you teach is enough:
That to faithful service more is owed
     Than to beauty with manners rough!