THE WANING YEAR 
*53 
soft pearly-pink blots sprinkled here and there through¬ 
out the stronger-hued ranks help much towards harmony 
in the general effect. For sheer robustness and purity of 
colour I have nothing that I like better than the rich 
Pompeian red, reflexed with amber, of W. Holmes and 
the deeper dyes of John Shrimpton. The rich gold 
spray of the Source d’Or, one of the finest purely deco¬ 
rative kinds, flecks the great bank of bloom with added 
splendour, and everywhere I see shining stars of the 
Souvenir d’une Petite Amie, their silver whiteness show¬ 
ing all the fairer for the central tinge of snowdrop-green. 
And then- But enumeration, even of the humblest, 
is hopeless. “ I will show you how the lilies grow on 
the banks of Italy,” if you will, but a house full of 
chrysanthemums in full bloom demands a nimbler pen 
than mine. 
The twilight is very clear and grey this evening, and 
the few remaining leaves clap together in the light 
breeze with a strange illusion of pattering April rain, or 
the dry rustle of a driven flock. Forth of the chrysan¬ 
themum houses, their warm dazzle of light and colour 
takes on almost the semblance of a dream—a dream of 
Haroun Alraschid and his city. But here at my feet, 
as I go hearthwards down the long lawns, lie the quiet 
dun beds full of their hidden treasure. The dry leaves 
swirl lightly across them, and go eddying faintly away 
to unseen resting-places in the shade, like flights of 
phantom swallows. 
“ Here is the ghost of a summer that lived for us, 
Here is a promise of summers to be.” 
