44 THE JOY OF GARDENS 



and sharp swords of iris peeping above the ground, you 

 pray your memory to remind you to pass that way again 

 in May to feast your eyes on the purple of the iris and 

 the luxuriant bloom of the peonies while the air is heavy 

 with their fragrance and bees are gathering sweets. 



Some time in your wandering you may rest under a 

 hedge, awaiting the passing of an April shower, and look 

 forth into a quiet little garden that brought out a picture 

 of last June. Then it was flame and mystery with hosts 

 of Oriental poppies, glowing red, dropping their heavy 

 heads amid cool green foliage. What a wealth of gor- 

 geous color was that tiny garden ! And as July came and 

 once more you turned your steps to its familiar paths, 

 lo! a cloth of gold, eschscholtzia of the Golden West, 

 spread splendor all about, and you vexed your heart to 

 know what manner of gardener had sown seeds to blossom 

 so royally. Nor was the pageant done, for the frosted 

 autumn woods bent above the cardinal of salvia framed 

 in wreaths of star-eyed asters and goldenrod, and, as win- 

 ter snows lay deep, the mountain ash, bittersweet, and 

 scarlet berry shone above the snow. 



The poet's feeling for sweetness and light leads us to 

 make the garden charming with color and perfume. 

 When we recall the old garden treasured in memory it 

 had its color dream to live in the mind's eye; a back- 

 ground of flaunting pink hollyhocks against a distant 

 fence, a thriving tangle of mignonette maybe naught 



