When you hear wind shuffle through leaves you think of the old gardener, summoned to latch the gate, the landscape within a portico of trees, leafless through which sunlight passes in her white habit of fog. The steel lock becomes that bell which never tolls or warns the fair-haired postulant she has died, suffering from too much cold and watching for a young man who never came. His lamp-flicker a flash of wings in the distance. ___________________________________________________
Note -- The painting is by 19th C. illustrator, Emma Florence Harrison.