Regardless of unfavorable weather, Henry, the gardener, had kept the rose garden in fine condition. The roses were beautiful, abundant—not a weed! But the perennial beds—well, there just hadn't been time for these too. So I got busy. Nearly all day long I weeded.
From time to time came the little nagging suggestion: "Now, you know, your friends have warned you! You really aren't as young as you were. You may just regret this tomorrow—achy joints, stiff fingers, sore muscles. As you grow older, you should take it easy." But, kindly meant as the friends' advice was, I had never gone along with this type of reasoning, and I didn't now. I was not overdoing, not being foolhardy—just doing a practical, legitimate chore.
That night I woke up seeing weeds— nothing but weeds. I closed my eyes. Still weeds! Now, I'm not all that fond of weeds. So I decided to change the picture. To what? Well, there was the rose garden. Why not close my eyes and see roses, such glorious hints of the beauty, harmony, and peace of God's spiritual creation? It wasn't so difficult. Soon I went back to sleep, uplifted and refreshed by these lovely images. This brought back Keats' "Endymion":
