The lap throwing clouds of blossom on this haw- 

 Summer thorn or on this apple-orchard, or where the 

 wind-a-quiver pear leans over the pasture from 

 the garden-edge, or where in green hollows the 

 wild-cherry holds the nest of a speckled thrush. 

 She will be gone soon. Before the cuckoo's 

 sweet bells have jangled she will be treading 

 the snows of yesteryear. But no, she never 

 leaves the circling road, Persephone, Earth's 

 loveliest daughter. Onward forever she goes, 

 young, immortal, singing the greening song of 

 her ancient deathless magic far down below 

 the horizons, beyond the lifting line of the 

 ever upwelling world. And already Summer 

 is awake. She hears the nightjar churring 

 from the juniper to his mate on the hawthorn- 

 bough, and in the dew among the green corn 

 or from the seeding pastures the crek-crakc ! 

 wek-cruke ! of the ambiguous landrail. This 

 morning, when she woke, the cushats were 

 calling from the forest-avenues, the bumble- 

 bee droned in the pale horns of the honey- 

 suckle, and from a thicket newly covered with 

 pink and white blossoms of the wild -rose a 

 proud mavis saw her younglings at last take 

 flight on confident wing. 



A good symbol, that of the Awakening of 

 the Bat. Darkness come out of the realm of 

 sleep and dreams : the realm itself filled with 



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