AN APPRECIATION OF THE PEONY 



red spears. Then, reassured that they are really 

 coming, in spite of the long time Winter has held 

 them on the way, I cover them up and go away 

 content. On that day, for me, the garden season 

 begins. 



I know of no plant that is so satisfyingly 

 beautiful in every stage of its development. The 

 changing of the shades of red, green, copper and 

 bronze of the young stems and foliage, the slow 

 unfolding of the leaves of fine design are ex- 

 quisite in themselves — and yet they are but a pre- 

 lude to the burst of glory in the flowers. When 

 the blossoms appear, it is indeed hard to leave 

 the garden: no matter how many times a day 

 one gazes at them, there is something newly en- 

 trancing on each successive glance. There is 

 one peony lover, bewitched by their spell, who, 

 loath to leave them for even a few hours, makes 

 the rounds of her garden every night with a lan- 

 tern. This mistress of a much-cherished garden 

 often rises to listen to the birds and see her peonies 

 at dawn. The piercing tenderness of the wood- 

 thrush's song, the dream-like purity of the peon- 

 ies, the inspiration of the summer morning, bring 

 a happiness that is poignant, a thankfulness for 

 life that is ecstasy itself. 



23 



