THE GARDEN I am shut in a garden in a far-off land and the gates are guarded with winged boys: my smock is torn, my thighs are bruised, but my waist is trim and slender. Behold me, wading through rippling waters, carrying my little dust-pan and brush! There are no cobwebs on my roses and I have a clean white handkercheif. Listen! Somebody stole my doormat . . . Little boys! catch him if you can. I donít want my doormat back again, but I must find that robber if I would live.