The Open Air 



bell-flower drooping down over us, and the magical 

 essence of it filling all the room of the earth. 

 Sweetest of all things is wild-flower air. Full of their 

 ideal the starry flowers strained upwards on the bank, 

 striving to keep above the rude grasses that pushed 

 by them ; genius has ever had such a struggle. The 

 plain road was made beautiful by the many thoughts 

 it gave. I came every morning to stay by the starlit 

 bank. 



A friend said, " Why do you go the same road 

 every day? Why not have a change and walk 

 somewhere else sometimes? Why keep on up and 

 down the same place? " I could not answer; till 

 then it had not occurred to me that I did always 

 go one way; as for the reason of it I could not tell; 

 I continued in my old mind while the summers went 

 away. Not till years afterwards was I able to see 

 why I went the same round and did not care for 

 change. I do not want change: I want the same 

 old and loved things, the same wild-flowers, the 

 same trees and soft ash-green; the turtle-doves, the 

 blackbirds, the coloured yellowhammer sing, sing, 

 singing so long as there is light to cast a shadow 

 on the dial, for such is the measure of his song, 

 and I want them in the same place. Let me find 

 them morning after morning, the starry-white petals 

 radiating, striving upwards to their ideal. Let me 

 see the idle shadows resting on the white dust; let 

 me hear the humble-bees, and stay to look down 

 on the rich dandelion disk. Let me see the very 

 thistles opening their great crowns I should miss the 

 thistles; the reed-grasses hiding the moorhen; the 

 bryony bine, at first crudely ambitious and lifted by 

 force of youthful sap straight above the hedgerow 

 to sink of its own weight presently and progress with 



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