Dedication
DEDICATED TO THE PRAISE OF THOSE AMERICAN
MEN AND WOMEN, OF WHATSOEVER
PERIOD, WHO HAVE PLANTED SO BEAUTIFULLY
THAT THEIR GARDENS ARE AN INSPIRATION
TO OTHERS IN ALL GENERATIONS
In Green Old Gardens
Here may I live what life I please,
Married and buried out of sight,
Married to pleasure, and buried to pain,
Hidden away amongst scenes like these
Under the fans of the chestnut trees:
Living my child-life over again,
With the further hope of a fuller delight,
Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees.
In green old gardens hidden away
From sight of revel, and sound of strife,
Here have I leisure to breathe and move,
And do my work in a nobler way;
To sing my songs, and to say my say;
To dream my dreams, and to love my love,
To hold my faith and to live my life,
Making the most of its shadowy day.
—Violet Fane.
Note
“A garden was wonderful at night—a place of strange silences and yet stranger sound: trees darkly guarding mysterious paths that ran into caverns of darkness; the scents of flowers rising from damp earth heavy with dew; flowers that were weary with the dust and noise of the day and slept gently, gratefully, with their heads drooping to the soil, their petals closed by the tender hands of the spirits of the garden. The night sounds were strangely musical. Cries that were discordant in the day mingled now with the running of distant water, the last notes of some bird before it slept, the measured harmony of a far-away bell, the gentle rustle of some arrival in the thickets; the voice that could not be heard in the noisy chatter of the day rose softly now in a little song of the night and the dark trees and the silver firelight of the stars.”
—Hugh Walpole.