Barbara Hepworth writes to Ben Nicholson on the day of the installation of her sculpture “Spring” in their St Ives garden (1966)

Stuck on a headland between two seas,
the wind fidgeting across sodden fields,
beneath one’s feet, a rotting forest
laid over blue daub – you are right, Ben,
it is an odd place for a garden.
Ever since you went away, the rain
has been falling through the air
sideways – we step around sheets
of lying water which reflect the clouds
– with just a touch of blue pigment
which quickly dissolves. A tractor
is drumming out in the lane driving me mad!

Today I looked at my egg and thought
perhaps this is why I feel so jumpy.
The time has come for it to be laid
(if you’ll excuse the pun) in its place
in the comer of the garden by the box yew,
but first I thought I’d ask the wind
to co-operate, lower the waves
down on the shore, iron them out
till they gleam like beaten pewter –
a certain amount of stillness is required.

And miraculously for an hour or so
the wind dropped, and we could hear
one another’s voices, I shouted instructions
and the lads manoeuvred our egg
round the fish-ponds. Dear Ben,
if you could see it now after its spring
surgery – the open cavity in the bronze
a hollowed out perfection,
– such a release from liver and lights,
a lifting of all heaviness round the heart! –
the wind is picking up again, Ben,
and our egg is filling up with green light,
it’s breathing, singing like a wind-harp.