The Happy Garden 



it is the rose : and then, another day, the giant 

 asphodel puts out his blossoms, and I could declare 

 that nothing in all the world was ever half so 

 beautiful. . . . In the spring, I vow that the apple 

 trees are unforgettable, and yet, their blossoms are 

 not a fortnight gone when I remember them no 

 more. 



I tire of splendour and seek intimacy, and then 

 the cinquefoil is my joy, or I bend over the various 

 families of rockfoil and mark their doings. . . . 

 Everything satisfies. Nothing satisfies. Spring is 

 the most lovely season of the year : then autumn 

 has that privilege. In summer, it is very certain 

 that neither can hold a candle to the full glory 

 of the year. . . . And even, so changing is one's 

 mood, there are moments when one longs for winter 

 and heavy skies, and the frozen sun hanging like 

 a red ball in the sky. 



Best of all flowers are those which continue 

 through the summer, and those which have another 

 life in autumn : — sweet peas, and roses, and lupins, 

 and delphiniums. ... All is best, as good as it 

 can be, and much better than any of us deserve. 

 To have a real love for the earth, a love uncon- 

 taminated by books or sentimentality, to rejoice 

 in the buffeting of the wind, and the beat of the 

 rain, to delight in the sun and the sailing clouds, 



