The Postern Gate. 71 



It is the postern gate. Few footsteps enter here. 

 Even the keeper seldom puts aside the guelder rose 

 and the maple that join hands to bar the way. The 

 light feet of the sleek brown spaniel, that follows him 

 like a shadow, rarely rustle in these deep dead leaves. 

 The very rabbits, astonished here to meet a stranger, 

 stand at gaze a moment before they turn to fly. 



The ground is green with broad leaves of garlic, 

 patches of wood-sanicle, and belts of the enchanter's 

 nightshade. Orchis and bluebell, primrose and 

 anemone, woodspurge and pale herb paris are strewn 

 broadcast among the bushes — a very paradise of 

 flowers. The woodruff already begins to scent the air, 

 and the sorrel hangs its dainty bells by hundreds 

 among the moss of ancient trees. 



Standing here among the sheltering thickets you 

 begin to realize how full the woodland is of life ; how 

 many birds they are that sing to us of summer. High 

 above them all sounds the cuckoo's cry, full and 

 clear and mellow, and with no suspicion in it yet of 

 the hoarseness that in a few short weeks will overtake 

 him. 



Small wonder is it that his voice should fail ! 

 Early and late he is calling, often for hours together, 

 with hardly a pause for rest, in answer, so the legends 

 say, now to love-sick youth, and now to weary age, 

 each asking him with anxious heart the same question — 

 1 How long must I wait ?' 



He is sitting now on the very summit of a lofty 



