THE LAP OF PROSERPINE 123 



cinquefoil above, make royal colour, and when the 

 grasses shake out plumes and feathers, sprays and 

 drooping panicles of flowers. The graceful avens 

 blossoms now, and the wood-strawberry that never 

 sleeps has already set her fruit. 



At this season the western sun searches our lanes 

 in the long evenings, and reveals new beauties among 

 the dwellers there. Before twilight, at the evensong 

 of the birds, it touches the snowy field- rose to glory 

 and the dog-rose and musk-mallow to red-gold ; it 

 warms the unnumbered greens of hedgerow and of 

 tree ; it causes the dusky nettles to shine, and lights 

 the great and little docks' inflorescence into tapers 

 of ruddy flame ; it turns the pale willow-herb to a 

 deeper hue, and burns here and there upon delicate 

 living things in the nooks and draped crannies of the 

 earth. Down the green tunnels its level beam 

 awakens harmony of shadows barred with light. 

 Then the sun sets and the last song is sung; the 

 West glows like an opal ; darkness under no grey 

 cowl of cloud, but merely in semblance of tempered 

 day, holds night for a little while ; a star is reflected 

 like a diamond in the pond among cresses and 

 forget-me-nots; and, northerly, the sun, eager to 

 shine upon these good places again, steals along under 

 the edge of the mountains to the East, while tell- 

 tale silver upon the sky marks his way beneath the 

 horizon. 



I question if there be a scentless blossom. We only 

 smell a little, and our sense in this sort is on a par with 



