216 MY DEVON YEAR 



drawn northwards high above all that I beheld ; on 

 the silver-birch before me ; in the bramble, whose 

 foliage, moved at a faint breath, reflected back the 

 light of the sky unchanged from grey under-leaves ; 

 in the flying parachutes of the composite flowers ; in 

 the seeding clematis, and in the network of many 

 grey boughs already appearing through foliage grown 

 thin. Unconsidered links shone out ; unknown beau- 

 ties among the relations of varied leaves were made 

 manifest ; and unguessed congruities in the passing 

 of those fair things, whose funerals know no pomp, 

 whose palls are silver and sere, whose death-colours 

 speak of chill etiolation, unkissed, unwarmed by the 

 great sun. A grey day reveals the inner texture of 

 the Mother's robe, and touches these soft fabrics 

 that cling about the heart of her, and hide her very 

 bosom. 



