Most of it is a feast of green, in the bright slanting evening sun. But below, first, are last month's bleeding hearts.
Asiatic lilies wait to bud, crowded in beside bearded iris, cranesbill, and a mass of goldenrod. The robins chirp and carol away as always, whether in the dim gray mist of early morning or the long, steadily darkening twilights. This big old house with its big old mulberry tree has sheltered and overlooked much life, and many years and happiness. And I suppose there are robins anywhere. The mature garden, however, is mine.