Cowley.    

	And add to these retired Leisure,
	That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.

Milton.    

	The garden lies,
	A league of grass, wash’d by a slow broad stream.

Tennyson.    

	My garden is a forest ledge
	Which older forests bound;
	The banks slope down to the blue lake-edge,
	Then plunge to depths profound!

Emerson.    

	A little garden square and wall’d;
	And in it throve an ancient evergreen,
	A yew-tree, and all round it ran a walk
	Of shingle, and a walk divided it.

Tennyson.    

	His gardens next your admiration call,
	On every side you look, behold the wall!
	No pleasing intricacies intervene,
	No artful wildness to perplex the scene;
	Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
	And half the platform just reflects the other.
	The suffering eye inverted nature sees,
	Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;
	With here a fountain, never to be play’d,
	And there a summer-house that knows no shade.

Pope.    

Charles Kingsley.    

	The splash and stir
	Of fountains spouted up and showering down
	In meshes of the jasmine and the rose:
	And all about us peal’d the nightingale,
	Rapt in her song, and careless of the snare.

Tennyson.    

	An album is a garden, not for show
	Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow.

Charles Lamb.    

Cowper.