WILD FLOWERS 



A FIR-TREE is not a flower, and yet it is associated in 

 my mind with primroses. There was a narrow lane 

 leading into a wood, where I used to go almost every 

 day in the early months of the year, and at one corner 

 it was overlooked by three spruce firs. The rugged 

 lane there began to ascend the hill, and I paused a 

 moment to look back. Immediately the high fir- 

 trees guided the eye upwards, and from their tops to 

 the deep azure of the March sky over, but a step from 

 the tree to the heavens. So it has ever been to me, 

 by day or by night, summer or winter, beneath trees 

 the heart feels nearer to that depth of life the far sky 

 means. The rest of spirit found only in beauty, ideal 

 and pure, comes there because the distance seems 

 within touch of thought. To the heaven thought can 

 reach lifted by the strong arms of the oak, carried up 

 by the ascent of the flame-shaped fir. Round the 

 spruce top the blue was deepened, concentrated by 

 the fixed point ; the memory of that spot, as it were, 

 of the sky is still fresh I can see it distinctly still 

 beautiful and full of meaning. It is painted in bright 

 colour in my mind, colour thrice laid, and indelible; 

 as one passes a shrine and bows the head to the 

 Madonna, so I recall the picture and stoop in spirit to 

 the aspiration it yet arouses. For there is no saint 

 like the sky, sunlight shining from its face. 



The fir-tree flowered thus before the primroses 

 the first of all to give me a bloom, beyond reach but 

 visible, while even the hawthorn buds hesitated to 



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