3 JUNE 1949, Page 15

A Garden Heresy A finch in ridge and furrow flight

Parades across the lawn,

The thrushes sing into the night, And warblers hail the dawn ; The doves glide down at break of day To watch the thirsty wagtails play.

Yes, yes, a garden is for flowers,

For tulip, pink, forget-me-not ;

The thrift spreads low, the mullein towers ;

How sweet are thyme and bergamot!

Yet even within the garden's ring The fairest blossoms fly and sing!