COLOUR IN MY GARDEN 



for, striven for in our gardens is graciously vouchsafed. 

 There is no disturbing line, not an imperfect group, not a 

 petal out of place. 



Then veil my too inspecting face 

 Lest such a subtle shimmering grace 

 Flutter too far for me. 



Some day I should like to plant a garden to the night, to 

 be frequented only at dim twilights, by moonlight, or when 

 there is no light save the faint luminousness of white 

 flowers. There should be sombre evergreens for mystery, 

 an ever-playing fountain to break the tenseness, a pool for 

 the moon's quaint artistry, and a seat. And nearly all the 

 flowers should be white and sweet. There should be 

 the wraithlike Shad Bush and Cherry-trees to hang like 

 ghostly balloons among the shadows, waxen Magnolias, 

 sweet blush-blossomed Crabapple trees, and white Haw- 

 thorns with crowding blooms lying along the stiff branches 

 like new-fallen snow. Later should come perfumed Mock- 

 orange, white Lilac — "ghost of some lone delicate hour" — 

 and great bushes of free-growing white Roses — Stanwell 

 Perpetual, Blanc Double de Coubert, Madame Georges 

 Bruant, Madame Hardy, Frau Karl Druschki, Madame 

 Plantier — dames of unsullied purity. After the Snowdrops 

 and Snowflakes, Arabis, Daffodils, white Tulips, and pale 

 Primroses of the young spring should come Lilies-of-the 

 Valley, and shy Sweet Woodruff, trails of Candytuft, 

 Alyssum, and frilly white Petunias, Scented Pinks and ranks 

 of chaste Canterbury Bells and Foxgloves; great white 

 Peonies — loose petalled to ensnare the moonbeams — quaint 



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