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Updated: June 14, 2025
What delicate reticence there is in Richard Aldington's "Summer": "A butterfly, Black and scarlet, Spotted with white, Fans its wings Over a privet flower. "A thousand crimson foxgloves, Tall bloody pikes, Stand motionless in the gravel quarry; The wind runs over them. "A rose film over a pale sky Fantastically cut by dark chimneys; Across an old city garden." The imagination asks no more.
C., who had gone to sleep in the gallery with his head upon his arms before him on the desk, slumbered on until he woke in alarm some four hours later, to find himself alone and the church in total darkness, but he was intelligent enough to remember the bell and get his release. C. had a hand-to-hand fight in the church tower with Aldington's special imbecile.
Among Aldington's amusements no account would be complete without a reference to the numerous concerts and entertainments for charitable objects which my wife organized, and in which her musical talent enabled her to take a prominent part; and although I feel some hesitation in dealing with so personal a matter, I am certain that many of those who co-operated with her in the organization and the performance of these affairs will be pleased to have their recollections of her own part in them revived.
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