“I know you ghost of some lone, delicate hour,
Long-gone but unforget,
Wherein I had for guerden and dower,
That one thing I have not.”
It was a white lilac that inspired the lady to write the lines—yes, the lilac tree. Shall I plant it in my garden, although I have no particular faith in flowers in a Japanese garden? “We modems have only flowers, but not gardens,” I often said; and I even went on to declare that we must protest against such a state of things. However, I should be glad to have one or two lilacs, not in the garden, but somewhere beyond my sight, their old perfumes sailing towards me over the grayness.
As I said, I opened the shoji apart and sat on the verandah, sipping tea; from the cup my soul of fancy drank the youthfulness and love of these early summer days when every tree has changed its crimson-sleeved flower dress to a green coat. I always thought that green is a symbol of youth, and also of a maturing love. So this early Summer is more to my heart than Spring. It is with these summer days that the breeze can spread its musical wings freely. O 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. And my ideal garden should be silent. I am sure you will regard the voice as a piece of vulgarity when you are acquainted with the sweetness of silence. So a few trees I will have in my garden. But there must be a somewhat fantastic shape of stone under any circumstances. And one stone lantern, perhaps? The garden must be a poetry whose voice is suggestion or memory itself; and I will try to gather there the meaning fit for my own fancy. But when shall I have my ideal Japanese garden?—Oh, my garden dark-robed and silent as a Buddha priest.