DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



run in stippled patches, all with their trumpets turned 

 sunwards, on and on till the numberless multitude 

 form one solid yellow sheet. In those near by, the 

 individual grace and beauty of each flower stand 

 out and the contrast of deeper yellow trumpet and 

 lighter yellow petals is individually pleasing, but as 

 they recede from the eye the colours mingle to one 

 shade, growing paler and paler till in the distance 

 they are primrose-hued. 



And, as my eye has wandered down the lane of 

 gold, there has come into my thoughts the shallow 

 and unattractive expression 'streets of gold.' 



If in that other land, where there is no pain, there 

 are streets of any kind, I think they will be of yellow 

 daffodils, rich buttercups or even more majestic king- 

 cups, and a thousand other hues. Here, we may for a 

 time have to acknowledge the use and power aye, the 

 often cruel power -of the precious metal, but I like to 

 picture a land without a street with its limitations 

 and restraint, where gold and its power are gone for 

 ever. 



(K) 



