86 MEADOW GRASSES 



hand, on the ground, golden buttercup and 

 white moon-daisy, lemon-coloured hawk- 

 weed and obstinate charlock, beloved of 

 the visiting bee for its great dowry of 

 honey. The sunbeams had flooded the 

 cold earth during the springtide of the 

 year, and now the earth had sent its flowers 

 and its grasses with their faces turned above, 

 whence came the light that was life, the 

 light that was truth to the birds and the 

 bees, the flowers and the grasses. For 

 years I pondered the higher meaning of 

 life, studying in a city, amid the smoke and 

 clattering hum of traffic; the wild ones 

 have never needed to seek they have been 

 happy by the brook with its lanced sun- 

 points and swallowy song of summer over 

 the pebbles and the mossy boulders; they 

 have had no illusions. Nor have they 

 needed philosophies or discarnate para- 

 dises. 



Everything loved the mowing meadow. 

 By the stream the blackbirds sought for 



