THE SPIRIT OF GARDENS 



dener, see the results of the work and smile pleasantly, 

 ask, perhaps, the name of some flower, to please you, 

 know something of soils, praise your Mulberries, and 

 admire your collection of Violas, but soon they are off 

 and away, breathing more freely for leaving the sheltered 

 peace of your well-kept place, and vanish to Spitzbergen 

 or the Chinese desert in search of what their souls crave. 

 We are different ; we sit in the cool of the evening, 

 overlooking our sweet-scented borders, gaining joy 

 from the gathering night that paints out the detail of 

 our world, and hope quietly for a soft, gentle rain in 

 the night to stiffen the flowers' drooping heads. We 

 English are gardeners by nature : perhaps the greyness 

 of our skies accounts for our desire to make our gardens 

 blaze with colours. 



We have our memories, our desire for peace, our love 

 of colour, and, at the back of all, something infinitely 

 more grand. 



"No lily muffled hum of a summer bee 

 But finds some coupling with the spinning stars ; 

 No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere ; 

 . . . Earth's crammed with heaven, 

 And every common bush afire with God : 

 But only he who knows takes off his shoes.' 1 



