Sonnets. Part II, VII

His heart was in his garden; but his brainWandered at will among the fiery stars:Bards, heroes, prophets, Homers, Hamilcars,With many angels, stood, his eye to gain;The devils, too, were his familiars.And yet the cunning florist held his eyesClose to the ground, -- a tulip-bulb his prize, --And talked of tan and bone-dust, cutworms, grubs,As though all Nature held no higher strain;Or, if he spoke of Art, he made the themeFlow through box-borders, turf, and flower-tubs;Or, like a garden-engine's, steered the stream, --Now spouted rainbows to the silent skies;Now kept it flat, and raked the walks and shrubs.