62 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



" Sorrow is past," peals the jocund blast, 

 "Joy with the morning is come at last: 

 Stout we have kept our hearts till now, 

 Though night was long in the dark below. 



" But for a day our brave array 

 Then, like a shadow, we pass away, 

 Other springs will have other flowers, 

 Only this little day is ours.- 



"Whither we go we do not know: 

 We are content that it should be so. 

 Life no briefer than Love may be, 

 And Love is as long as Eternity.- 



" Safe in the Hand that our beauty planned, 

 Ours but to follow not to command. 

 Gladly we follow where He wills, 

 The Lord of the Host of the daffodils." 



There is no better plant than this for the 

 wide and poetic use which people call naturalis- 

 ing, and there is no better mission for any plant 

 than to be sent forth to do its work and live 

 its life in its own way. A hillside sloping sun- 

 wards with a partial shading of a few trees, 

 with a little stream at its foot, or a level pond 

 for mirror, is made more than beautiful if 

 shot over with these golden flowers. A stretch 

 of orchard grass, left to itself until June hay is 

 ready for the mower, is the best possible home 

 for the daffodil. I have seen them by the 



