breeze terribly cursed by us and Spring in April—poor musician in air. Play on now, we welcome you really from our hearts! I am perfectly comfortable this morning. A moment ago I resolved that I would stop writing books; I would convert myself into a reader,—well that is to say, when I have time. And this morning I am extremely happy in a sort of dream on this verandah. I looked upon the sky, and found a few birds; my own soul followed after them. The sun began to cast a strong light.
“To-day my soul’s a dragon-fly.”
The world a awaying reed.”
I thought presently about garden-making; and now declared that the garden had nothing to do with nature, or not much. Those people are silly, 1 thought, who think that they can make a garden with a few scraps of what is vaguely called Nature, closed in with a wall or fence. Oh, no! There must be primarily the art of man; veil or clothe it with the breath of nature; let us read the art of man as well as that of Nature,—the unmistakable suggestion of humanity under the solitary breath of Nature.
