A dream house in my mind
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In spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in search of a bud the first sign of awakening Nature after her winter’s sleep, I feel the delightful，velvety texture of a flower, and discover its remarkable convolutions; and something of the miracle of Nature is revealed to me.
This is my dream house, tacked away in a deep forest, where I feel delicate symmetry of a leaf, pass my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a sliver birch, feel happy quiver of a bird in full song.
Jorge Luis Borges wrote，“I used to figure Paradise in such a library’s guise.” There’s nothing better than volumes of books in my house. For a great book is necessarily a gift: it offers me a life I have not the time to live yourself, and it takes me into a world I have not the time to travel in literal time. A civilized mind is, in essence, one that contains many such lives and many such worlds.
The house grounds were gleaming in the sunlight as though freshly painted: the cloudless sky smiled at itself in the smoothly sparkling lake, the satin-green lawns rippled occasionally in a gentle breeze: June had arrived. And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
This is my dream house, where full of joy, wisdom and hope.
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