Apart from everything else * * . a garden is the reward of 

 toil, the earth's cry of delight the full enjoyment 

 of plenty and rich colour*" 



DECEMBER 



Not a breath of mild air 

 Blows over the garden, 

 That sharp frosts harden, 

 And keen winds keep. 



But a flower is there, 



A pale ghost of the Summer, 

 The year's last comer, 

 To realms of sleep. 



The beauty of the Christmas Rose, 

 A lustrous pearl that snow- ward blows. 



Not a sound ; not a word 

 The garden is telling, 

 But a music swelling 

 Of bells a-chime. 



And the breast of a bird 

 Outbraving the weather, 

 Its crimson feather 

 In winter-time 



Gleams as a newly-opened rose, 



In Winter's garden, white with snows. 



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