DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



be a strain of sadness somewhere in its presence. 

 Already the snowdrop and the aconite have lost 

 their welcome charms, the crocus fades from 

 sight and catkins wither brown. It is passing 

 strange that when the waking call has sounded 

 through the land, some should 

 hasten off to rest and sleep 

 the summer hours away. 



Too well we know the 

 hurrying race, too soon the 

 fading petal falls ' and the 

 grace of the fashion of it 

 perisheth.' If only we could 

 scotch the wheel, could stay 



the Hand of Time (that 

 quickens as we age), could 

 wrest its beauty ere it slips 

 and leaves us but a memory ! 



FLOWERS OF 



LARCH TREE 



70 



