!0 UNDER THE TREES. 



sanctity of those venerable shades where the voices 

 of the oracles were once heard, and fleeting 

 glimpses of shy divinities made a momentary splen 

 dor in the dusky depths. 



Wordsworth s sonnets are always within reach 

 of those who never get beyond the compelling 

 voice of nature, and who are continually returning 

 to her with a sense of loss and decline after every 

 wandering. As I take up the little, well-worn book, 

 it opens of itself at a familiar page, and I read 

 once more that sonnet which comes to one at times 

 with an unspeakable pathos in its lines a sense of 

 permanent alienation and loss : 



&quot; The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 

 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; 

 Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 

 We have given our hearts away, a sorbid boon. 

 This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 

 The winds that will be howling at all hours, 

 And are up-gathered now like springing flowers 

 For this, for everything, we are out of tune. 

 It moves us not. Great God ! I d rather be 

 A pagan suckled in a creed outworn, 

 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 

 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 

 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 

 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.&quot; 



Almost unconsciously I repeat these lines aloud, 

 and straightway the fire, breaking into flame where 

 it has been only glowing before, answers them 

 with a sudden outburst of heat and light that make 



