It has been ten years since I first visited Kelmscott Manor, the country home of William Morris, in rural Oxfordshire, England. Here I stood, once again, under the twig arbor that shelters the main walkway in the walled garden. Iris and columbine in every shade and tint from white to lavender to deep purple stood in little crowds, scattering petals on the stones. Climbing vines, arching grasses, lines of moss, each claimed its own shade of green. The stone walk, stone wall and worn wooden door quietly mingled in a neutral browny-gray harmony, setting off the purples. Yes, I do understand why William Morris found this place to be an endless source of inspiration.