MY GARDEN donna lilies bloom against the sky-blue lark- 

 OF DREAMS spurs? w ; th whke an( j blue harebells at their 



feet and pale yellow foxgloves near by — you 

 must see it as you must hear a Mozart. 



I cannot tear the quivering chords from a 

 symphony and lay them out to dry in a criti- 

 cism. I cannot divest myself of the feeling 

 that music is made to be heard, not explained 

 or analyzed. I am glad that I have ears to hear. 



I feel very much the same about color har- 

 mony. It has its allegros and its andantes, but 

 I can best appreciate the rhythms without 

 conscious effort to understand the ideas. These 

 visual rhythms go very deep into a man's soul 

 and are not easily unraveled. It is better 

 simply to listen while the melody lasts, for it 

 will die away in silence. 



For such is the fleeting character of all ex- 

 quisite things. Nothing that is beautiful stays. 

 As each sweet flower passes it is gone from us. 

 Like the flower, the emotion belongs to the 

 hour. 



And it is well. It is well that we cannot stay 

 the festival. If we did, we would only petrify 

 its life. 



[66] 



