MEADOW GRASSES 85 



strives for the beautiful, the ideal, without 

 conscious effort, maybe, but the ideal is 

 there all for the species. The nightingale 

 that silvers the dusk with song has finer 

 notes than his ancestor of olden time; he 

 has learnt so much during the centuries; 

 through generations of faithful loyalty to 

 an ideal his tiny soul-flame has become 

 brighter, and his voice speaks with sweeter 

 poetry. On the may trees in the hedge, 

 already shaking their blossoms into the 

 wind, the wild roses were open to the sky; 

 it was now their brief hour of sunshine. 

 Simple petals stained with roseal hue, 

 they waited for the wild bee to bring the 

 pollen that would change the beauty into 

 life. 



High sang the larks over the meadow, 

 striving with fluttering wings to reach the 

 blue vision of heaven. Their voices trailed 

 to the earth and filled the heart with hope 

 and joy. Afar, the noisy rooks fed their 

 young in the colony in the elm tops; at 



