CHAPTER XIX 



I LIKE the coming of Winter, nor can I easily read 

 into it the symbols of sadness which the poets find. 



Ah, minstrel, how strange is 

 The carol you sing ! 

 Let Psyche who ranges 

 The gardens of Spring 

 Remember the changes 

 December will bring! 



Yet Psyche was of immortal stuff, and might easily have 

 comforted herself with Shelley's reflection, "If Winter 

 comes, can Spring be far behind?" The seasons wax 

 and wane, each with its own peculiar charm, and the last 

 rose of Summer is, after all, but the promise of a larger 

 bush next year, rather than the sad reminder of man's 

 mortality. We may be permitted some sober moments, 

 some lingering melancholy, when we walk in the garden 

 and see the sweet alyssum borders withered down, the 

 Japanese anemones cut off in their perfection by the 

 frost, the leaves of the poplars by the pool blowing 

 across the sward or floating on the dark water. But 

 even then we remember that the potatoes are dug and 



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