Quiet ones; secret ones; great riots of tangly growth; in which bees lurk and buzz but do not come out; in which there are footprints on the lawn in the morning dew; artful, austere knots; of poisons, medicines and blameless herbs; set with slabs that snails lurk under; art nouveau reveries, existing only in ink and dreams; that are unquiet with the whispering of slender trees; from which garlic may be stripped with a flourish; muddy patches; that are giddy with mangoes; ant-parties; in which we have buried a poet beneath the laburnum and will ever after have yellow words upon our heads; containing follies and extravagances within their stone walls; bitter fenced-in wiltings; those that are splinted tight with bamboo; having at their mazy centre an obelisk with a green and leering face; those whose trees would eat you without a thought; traffic-island thickets; beloved parks; butterfly playgrounds.