The Open Air 



the blue veronica, the blue meadow cranesbill ; feeling 

 the warmth and delight of the increasing sun-rays, 

 but not recognising whence or why it was joy. All 

 the world is young to a boy, and thought has not 

 entered into it ; even the old men with grey hair do 

 not seem old; different but not aged, the idea of age 

 has not been mastered. A boy has to frown and 

 study, and then does not grasp what long years mean. 

 The various hues of the petals pleased without any 

 knowledge of colour-contrasts, no note even of colour 

 except that it was bright, and the mind was made 

 happy without consideration of those ideals and hopes 

 afterwards associated with the azure sky above the 

 fir-tree. A fresh footpath, a fresh flower, a fresh 

 delight. The reeds, the grasses, the rushes un- 

 known and new things at every step something 

 always to find ; no barren spot anywhere, or sameness. 

 Every day the grass painted anew, and its green seen 

 for the first time ; not the old green, but a novel hue 

 and spectacle, like the first view of the sea. 



If we had never before looked upon the earth, but 

 suddenly came to it man or woman grown, set down 

 in the midst of a summer mead, would it not seem to 

 us a radiant vision? The hues, the shapes, the song 

 and life of birds, above all the sunlight, the breath of 

 heaven, resting on it; the mind would be filled with 

 its glory, unable to grasp it, hardly believing that such 

 things could be mere matter and no more. Like a 

 dream of some spirit-land it would appear, scarce fit 

 to be touched lest it should fall to pieces, too beauti- 

 ful to be long watched lest it should fade away. So it 

 seemed to me as a boy, sweet and new like this each 

 morning; and even now, after the years that have 

 passed, and the lines they have worn in the forehead, 

 the summer mead shines as bright and fresh as when 



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