Excerpt from A Garden Rosary
Oh, you funny, fusty-looking woman I have passed you a thousand times this winter on the village street, and thought how sour and how dull you were. And yet, all the time, blooming in your imagination was the little flower-plat you are setting forth so happily to dig.
And you you gross and common money-grabber, whom I have scorned, as you sat heavily in the train to town, with your newspaper before your face, you, too, have been secretly cherishing your vision of fragrance, and flowing, swimming, swaying line.
Across the street my neighbor has stepped forth from the dark doors of the rectory that have hidden her all winter, and is walking across her lawn the sun light striking on her green velvet jacket. At a certain point she pauses, and indi cates to the gardener the exact spot where the plants are to be placed. Kneeling, he plunges his fingers into the freshly turned earth. That humble attitude is, to my eye, not so much one of servility as of worship. On one's knees what is a more fitting way to greet the season?
Thus in the spring, we, like our flowers, emerge from the rigid barriers that have confined us, and appear before each other in brief miraculous revelation, clothed in our rightful garments the delicate drap ery of our dreams.
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