1 88 UNDER THE TREES. 



air like blossoms from a ripening tree. Turn where 

 we would, this music went with us ; it mingled with 

 the murmur of the trees ; it blended with the limpid 

 note of the rivulet ; it melted with the breeze that 

 swept across the grassy places. All day, and for 

 many another day, we were conscious of a larger 

 world of harmony and beauty folding in our little 

 world of tree and soil ; we lived in it as freely and 

 made it ours as fully as the bit of earth beneath our 

 feet. Through all our talk this thread of melody 

 was run, and our very thoughts were set to this un 

 failing music. In those days the Poet wrote no 

 verses ; what need of verse when poetry itself, that 

 deep and breathing beauty of the soul of things, 

 filled every hour and overflowed all the channels of 

 thought and sense ! 



But if we were dumb in the hearing of a music 

 beyond our mastery, we were not blind to the 

 parable conveyed in every sound and sight ; in 

 those delicious days and nights a great truth 

 cleared itself forever in our minds. We know 

 henceforth how all dream-worlds, all beautiful 

 hopes and visions and ideals, are fashioned. They 

 are not of human making ; they but make visible 

 things which already exist unseen ; they but make 

 audible sounds which are already vocal unheard. 

 He who dreams, sleeps, and another fills the cham 

 ber of his brain with moving figures ; he who aspires, 

 hopes and believes, unlocks the door, and another 

 world, already furnished with beauty, lies before 



