MEADOW GRASSES 83 



humble bees sang to themselves as in a 

 frenzy of labour for their ideal they took 

 the pollen from the roses in the hedge; 

 the cuckoos sent call after call of melody 

 from the distant hazel coppice. The sound 

 of summer was everywhere, the earth filled 

 with swelling ecstasy everything so green 

 and alive, the waving grasses and the haw- 

 thorns; the green kingdom charged and 

 surcharged with energy, from the wild 

 strawberry to the mighty, sap-surfeited bole 

 of the oak. Although so still, the vast 

 earth was humming and vibrating, the 

 crescendo of passion reached gradually while 

 the sun swept nearer, day by day, the 

 zenith of its curve. 



In one corner of the meadow was a small 

 pond, half hidden by rushes, bearing a 

 golden blazon of flower in autumn the 

 countrypeople would grind the roasted 

 seeds of the iris to make their " poor man's 

 coffee." With them grew the bog asphodel, 

 crowned by a tapering spike of starlike 



