The Happy Garden 



sun goes down a heron flies over to the post-office 

 — so we guess — to fetch and send off letters, or 

 when the young birds are out of the egg, to despatch 

 telegrams and newspaper announcements : boy or 

 girl, as the case may be. 



Clap your hands. They have a lovely flight 

 with legs outstretched and head and neck curled 

 back like the prow of a viking ship : wide wings 

 held still and taut after the first few beats, as they 

 swing up into the wind, hover and swoop. 



Water-lilies grow, and in April there are sheets 

 of the beautiful bog-bean with its orchid-like 

 flower and cup-like leaves. 



The lake is still, and in it you shall see the 

 trees mirrored and the sky : the moonlit night and 

 the stars : the flowering shrubs : the reeds. Out 

 of the weeds come little flotillas of wild duck : 

 frogs dive as you approach and the flies dance 

 crazily. It is such a place of places, a place so 

 seemingly forgotten, that it is absurd to think that 

 the lake is only a stone's throw away from the 

 house, for in all these peregrinations through the 

 woods you are never more than a mile away from 

 the house. Your furthest point, perhaps, is when 

 you are at the other side of the lake and cannot 

 cut through direct. 



The most beautiful of all remains — it always 



