chance, and in some form we are all waiting for 

 inspiration. The nature-lover who lives with his fields 

 and skies simply puts himself in the way of the most 

 and gentlest of such inspirations. 



He may be ploughing when the spirit comes, or 

 wandering, a mere boy, along the silent shores of a 

 lake, and hooting at the owls. You remember the 

 boy along the waters of Winander, how he would 

 hoot at the owls in the twilight, and they would call 

 back to him across the echoing lake ? And when 

 there would come a pause of baffling silence, 



Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung 

 Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 

 Has carried far into his heart the voice 

 Of mountain-torrents ; or the visible scene 

 Would enter unawares into his mind 

 With all its solemn imagery. 



That is an inspiration, the kind of experience one 

 has in living with the out-of-doors. It does n't come 

 from books, from laboratories,' not even from an 

 occasional tramp afield. It is out of companionship 

 with nature that it comes; not often, perhaps, to any 

 one, nor only to poets who write. I have had such 

 experiences, such moments of quiet insight and 



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