154 A GARDEN DIARY 
been a pair of sober horticulturists, and we will 
continue to be so still. Our rose-jungle must 
wait. It is only postponed: we will have it 
yet, and in a better place. Even if we never 
did have it, even if the postponement. had to be 
an eternal one, is it not, one sometimes asks 
oneself, the gardens that never have been planted 
—‘‘whose flowers ne’er fed the bee”; whose dusky 
scented walks no foot has ever trod, that yield 
the deepest, the most unqualified enjoyment ? 
“Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
are sweeter.” What then of unseen gardens? 
What wealth of blossoms! what a flood of sun- 
shine, which yet never scorches! what green and 
translucent groves, which at the same time are 
never damp! what order, without the faintest 
touch of formality! what wildness, what heavenly 
entanglements, without so much as an approach 
to confusion! But I perceive that I am again 
wandering out of the domain of horticulture, into 
a much less attainable region, and it may be as 
well, therefore, to pause. 
