JUNE 95 



the air with perfume. In the garden, we 

 have gold as rich as October ever gave ; 

 and we have silver which is June's alone. 

 Laburnums rain gold above the golden 

 broom, and intermix with Silvern heaps 

 of white-thorn and silvery broom. And 

 when did ever autumnal-mellowed beech 

 light up the yellow groves with velvet fires, 

 so softly red as the young shoots of copper 

 beech, which scatter now their spray of 

 rubies and clear jacinth, dropping down 

 between us and the sun ? And when did 

 autumn ever burn with such crimsons as 

 glow in these scarlet double thorns, or in 

 the piled-up splendours of rhododendron, 

 which now illuminate the woods ? 



The yews and yewen hedges have put 

 on a new face, and conceal all trace of 

 gloom beneath young leaves of russet- 

 gold. Yet there is regret and grief this 

 beautiful June morning ! I find myself 

 quoting Wordsworth, saying to myself, 

 ( There is a change, and I am poor ' ; for 

 the whole garden is all jubilant with song, 

 but the song that is best is not heard. 

 There is no nightingale this year. We 



