The silver is white, red is the gold;The robes, they lay in fold.The bailey beareth the lull away;The lily, the rose, the rose I lay. And thro’ the glass window shines the sun.How should I love, and I so young?The bailey beareth the lull away;The lily, the rose, the rose I lay. XVth Century: Anon. Gardening is all of my pleasure. It was ever more a joy than a duty, to watch the tender shoots burst forth in spring, and to know that I had a part of them, in the cold season. When the scent of rose and gillyflower rises to mingle with the pungent breath of thyme and rosemary, chervil, basil and rue, I can close my eyes for a sinful instant, and be young again. Not old, and witless, and shattered by rheumatism like an oak after the lightning; but brimming with promise, as a fresh field awaiting the sower’s careful hand. Like the good earth of England, made rich by the blood of strong men, slumbering in moist quietness yet, beneath, a moil of passionate life. Like my garden.
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