Out of Doors in February 



affixed no bounds to thought. All the palings, and 

 walls, and crooked fences deep down yonder are 

 artificial. The fetters and traditions, the routine, the 

 dull roundabout which deadens the spirit like the cold 

 moist earth, are the merest nothings. Here it is easy 

 with the physical eye to look over the highest roof. 

 The moment the eye of the mind is filled with the 

 beauty of things natural an equal freedom and width 

 of view come to it. Step aside from the trodden 

 footpath of personal experience, throwing away the 

 petty cynicism born of petty hopes disappointed. 

 Step out upon the broad down beside the green corn, 

 and let its freshness become part of life. 



The wind passes, and it bends let the wind, too, 

 pass over the spirit. From the cloud-shadow it 

 emerges to the sunshine let the heart come out from 

 the shadow of roofs to the open glow of the sky. High 

 above, the songs of the larks fall as rain receive it 

 with open hands. Pure is the colour of the green 

 flags, the slender-pointed blades let the thought be 

 pure as the light that shines through that colour. 

 Broad are the downs and open the aspect gather the 

 breadth and largeness of view. Never can that view 

 be wide enough and large enough, there will always 

 be room to aim higher. As the air of the hills en- 

 riches the blood, so let the presence of these beautiful 

 things enrich the inner sense. One memory of the 

 green corn, fresh beneath the sun and wind, will lift 

 up the heart from the clods. 



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