86 MY DEVON YEAR 



down a shower of petals, and they tell the grass of 

 the atoms that they have just left upon the bough 

 to begin their apple-life. For that twinkle of snow 

 through the green announces that certain infant fruits 

 have this instant entered upon serious existence and 

 cast off their long clothes for ever. 



From the unfolding foam of hoary dwarfs and 

 upright adults alike goes forth a promise. Early 

 fruit is already setting, while later trees still hold 

 their buds tight clenched, as though half a hundred 

 Springs have taught them fear of the green month. 

 But if May woos, June commands ; the first may be 

 resisted, but before the second every reluctant bud 

 must open to fulfil destiny. 



The sun makes a splendour of each grass-blade, 

 and in such clear seeing I can watch the very heart- 

 beat of Spring until blade and leaf and open blossom 

 are but a transparent veil, and I go under the brown 

 and the grey, beneath the rind and the bark and the 

 polished golden-green young growths, to the core of 

 them. And there I see their sweet, sugary blood 

 coursing ; I mark how it throbs pure quintessence 

 of life from the unknown fountain to each minute, im- 

 mature leaflet, to every knot of buds, to the least vague, 

 scarce-defined green calyx that hides a coming flower. 

 So witnessed, a sort of personality awakens, and I 

 share the unconscious lives and stretch hands to every 

 tree ; while they approach me also ; and coming a little 

 from our sequestered and separate ways, we touch 

 hearts here in the common temples of Spring. I 



