IN AN OLD GARDEN 



A SUNNY morning in June — a golden day 

 among days that have mostly a neutral tint; a 

 large garden, with no visible houses beyond, but 

 green fields and unkept hedges and great silent 

 trees, oak and ash and elm — could I wish, just 

 now, for a more congenial resting-place, or even 

 imagine one that comes nearer to my conception 

 of an earthly paradise? It is true that once I 

 could not drink deeply enough from the sweet and 

 bitter cup of wild nature, and loved nature best, 

 and sought it gladly where it was most savage and 

 solitary. But that was long ago. Now, after 

 years of London life, during which I have 

 laboured like many another "to get a wan pale 

 face," with perhaps a wan pale mind to match, 

 that past wildness would prove too potent and 



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