206 POT-POURRI FROM A SURREY GARDEN 



the glory of some autumn bush or leaf. In front of the 

 window there are some little delicate leaves of one of the 

 shrubby Spiraeas, planted on purpose to shine, coral and 

 gold, late in the year. It does not matter about its being 

 planted in a choice bed, as its growth is not coarse ; if it 

 looks a little dried up in summer, it is not noticed when 

 all the flowers are about. The dear little black and white 

 pigeons ' Nuns,' they are called with outspread wings, 

 are flying down to feed. The flight of a pigeon is so 

 beautiful ; no wonder Dante immortalised it in the famous 

 lines in the Paolo and Francesca episode. That old cynic, 

 Voltaire, used to say that Dante's fame would always 

 grow, because he is so little read. 



As I sit and watch, the low yellow winter sun bursts 

 out, illuminating all things. To-morrow he will not 

 shine for me, as I shall be in that horrid dark London. 



One other morbid little poem, appropriate to this time 

 of year, I think I must give you, for it used to be a great 

 favourite of mine in past days, before the cheerfulness of 

 old age came upon me. If I ever knew who was the 

 author, I have forgotten it now : 



LA MELANCOLIE 



Que me dis-tu, morne vent d'automne 



Miserable vent ? 

 Toi dont la chanson douce et monotone 



Jadis charmait tant ? 



Tu me dis, helas ! qu'amour et jeunesse 



M'ont fait leurs adieux . . . 

 Et du fond de Tame un not de tristesse 



Me deborde aux yeux ! 



Tu me dis, trop bien, ou le sentier mene 



Que 1'espoir a f ui . . . 

 Et ton chant piteux, traduisant ma peine, 



Triple mon ennui. 



