Meadows of Asphodel. 55 



Here in this sheltered hollow we may read how well 

 with her deft ringers Nature hides the works of Man, 

 how swiftly his memory is effaced, how soon his 

 presence is forgotten. 



This rugged brow, that looks no other than the 

 living rock, so grey is it with clinging lichens, so draped 

 with soft green moss, so hung with ivy, and so tasselled 

 everywhere with ferns, is the entrance of an ancient 

 mine. 



In the crevices of the unmortared masonry the 

 wood-sage is beginning to unfurl its wrinkled leaves. 



Over the mounds near by, the spotted blades of 

 early orchises give promise of plenty of rich colour 

 later on. 



Under a great bramble, whose armed branches 

 shelter well the plants that put their trust in its shadow, 

 springs the rich green foliage of a tall spurge-laurel, 

 that in its growth recalls the graceful figure of the 

 hapless Daphne, and in the sweet breath of its pallid 

 blossoms the fragrance of her youth. 



And everywhere among the thickets, lifting their 

 bright faces through the tangle of the briars, drooping 

 gracefully from crevices in the rock itself, are myriads 

 of daffodils. There are clumps of them among all the 

 scattered bushes, there are patches on the hill-crest 

 highes up, they peer out of the hedge of the lane that 

 winds along at the foot of the valley, they have 

 climbed the steep slope of the pasture beyond. 



Lying idly here upon the sunny slope you gradually 



