THE American poet Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) offers an original perspective on the familiar subject of the garden.

The last verse seems particularly apt for this sodden British summer and autumn.

A ROOM IN A GARDEN

O stagnant east-wind, palsied mare,

Giddap! The ruby roses' hair

Must blow.

Behold how order is the end

Of everything. The roses bend

As one.

Order, the law of hoes and rakes,

May be perceived in windy quakes

And squalls.

The gardener searches earth and sky

The truth in nature to espy

In vain.

He well might find that eager balm

In lilies' stately-statued calm;

But then

He well might find it in this fret

Of lilies rusted, rotting, wet

With rain.