WOOING INSPIRATION. 127 



ever it may be not a pessimist in whose soul 

 ambition, without a plan of work, is ever 

 present. 



XXIX. 



Aug. 14, '04- Ironweed time! Up and 

 down the valley and its slopes their purple 

 cymes now gleam in the summer sunshine. Au- 

 gust time! The quiet and peace and glory of 

 the aftermath surround and are with me. I 

 come again to my boulders' side for inspiration. 

 I lay me down beside them and wait, that in 

 their presence thoughts sincere and worthy may 

 be mine. Too often, in these later years, is my 

 waiting vain. 



While peace and calm surround me, the silence 

 is ever broken. In the deep recesses of a cave, 

 or sometimes in the "wee small hours" of a 

 winter or spring night in the country, there is a 

 silence that appalls the soul, that brings up un- 

 canny thoughts of death and the grave. But 

 here, in August time, from sun to sun, count we 

 forward or backward, there is that trill of in- 

 sects' wings and cymbals, which seemingly never 

 begins and never ends. Mingled with it, almost 



