154 A GARDEN OF PLEASURE 



all the borders thereabouts were bedded 

 deep in fluffy pink. But even this relic 

 of grace is past, and the tree, nearly un- 

 leaved (for her feathers left no room for 

 leaf), all dishevelled and hung with rags 

 and tatters, is an almost ghastly sarcasm 

 on her summer self. 



SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 13. Autumn or 

 spring ! * I know not which is sweetest, 

 no, not I' the deep mellow calm of an 

 evening such as this, in the middle of 

 September, or the green brilliance of the 

 spring. The tone is rich, like the colour 

 of an old Venetian master; and how sad ! 

 with the strange sweet sadness of all last 

 things last days, last hours. The air is 

 filled with a golden warmth, and all 

 tremulous with the sound of bells. The 

 chimes of four churches make music to- 

 gether, within a half circle of four miles. 

 Save for the dazzling glow of tall crimson 

 phloxes, or where the leaf of some Virginian 

 vine, impatient of the lingering summer 

 breaks into sudden scarlet, or where great 

 Sunflowers burn in fair majesty serene, the 



