It’s a view of Streatham Common,2 a large, grass-covered area with oak trees and broom.
It had rained in the night, and the ground was soggy here and there and the young spring grass fresh and green.
As you see, it’s scribbled on the title page of the ‘Poesies d’Edmond Roche’.3
There are beautiful ones among them, serious and 1v:2 sad, including one that begins and ends