Impressions 



Fool, I may be; be it so, 

 Yet while free to come and go, 

 This the silliness I teach, 

 This the gospel moved to preach, 

 Better, cat-bird, ten to one, 

 Than harvesting in July's sun. 



Why pursue the fruitless theme? 



Mid-summer now and I would dream. 



Dream that happiness was mine, 



Dream ambition's height was reached, 



Dream that toil I could resign, 



Dream that all the cat-bird preached 



Was, at last, a world-wide truth, 



And I again an aimless youth; 



That life was living without care, 

 With singing cat-birds, everywhere. 



Recently I chanced to pass by the three 

 beeches as the sun was setting. Their massive 

 trunks and far up-reaching branches impressed 

 me, as they always do, and I stood for a mo- 

 ment reverentially, as one might in a great 

 cathedral. A solitary thrush, not far off, sang 

 in its own sweetly meditative way, suggesting 

 the cathedral's organist dreaming over the 

 keys. The prevailing subdued light did not ob- 

 scure the outlook. It was instead so far pene- 

 trative that the more distant trees and thick-set 



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