I thought these lines were just perfect.
The garden was Abel's poem. Its half dozen beds were so many cantos. Nature crowded them for him with imagery such as no Laureate could copy in the cold mosaic of language.
The rhythm of alternating dawn and sunset, the strophe and anti-strophe still perceptible through all the sudden shifts of our dithyrambic seasons and echoed in corresponding floral harmonies, made melody in the soul of Abel, a plain serving-man.
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