172 BENEDICITE 



their individuality. But there goes to the expression 

 of it a rapture and a vehemence that fascinate the 

 beholder. All birds have their joy of life, but all 

 birds sing not thus. This song, indeed, seems to be 

 wrung out with violence, almost with pain from the 

 frail body, only the inner ecstasy enabling the singer 

 to rise superior to the effort of utterance. And, like 

 all efforts that strike highest, it fails. It fails as 

 compared with the rounded sweetness of the song 

 of the bird's own congener the Willow- wren. For the 

 Willow- wren aims within the compass of achievement, 

 and its song is perfect within bounds. Therefore it 

 comes that so long as Willow-wren will sing man 

 will listen, feeling the solace and satisfaction of 

 perfected endeavour. No such sense of fulfilment, 

 however, is left upon the mind of him who watches 

 the Wood- wren in song. Nevertheless, he will 

 follow the bird from tree to tree, to see it strive and 

 fail, and strive and fail again ever the rapturous 

 body and throbbing throat, ever the crushed-up trill 

 that seemed meant to be so liquid sweet and full. 

 Here in little is the failure of the artist, of the 

 enthusiast, the saint, of all who strike higher than 

 their reach, and fail, as men count failure. And 

 because of this, the vision of that small creature so 

 wrought on us that, looking up into the green mist 

 of leaves and feeling the peace of the lasting 

 Sabbath of the woods, "Benedicitt!" said he who 

 went with me, or was it I, or both of us? For we 

 thought no more of the distinctions of days and 

 places, nor any more of divided counsels, joining issue 

 in the fervour of that small sylvan chorister, as if it 

 had been human, or we had put off our humanity. 



