THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER 



that is my experience I remain an 

 optimist. Time with an unsteady hand 

 has etched thin crooked lines, and, deep- 

 ening the hollows, has cast the original 

 expression into shadow. Pain and sorrow 

 flow over us with little ceasing, as the 

 sea-hoofs beat on the beach. Let us not 

 look at ourselves but onwards, and take 

 strength from the leaf and the signs of 

 the field. He is indeed despicable who 

 cannot look onwards to the ideal life 

 of man. Not to do so is to deny our 

 birthright of mind. 



The long grass flowing towards the 

 hedge has reared in a wave against it. 

 Along the hedge it is higher and greener, 

 and rustles into the very bushes. There 

 is a mark only now where the footpath 

 was; it passed close to the hedge, but its 

 place is traceable only as a groove in the 

 sorrel and seed-tops. Though it has quite 

 filled the path, the grass there cannot send 

 its tops so high; it has left a winding 

 crease. By the hedge here stands a moss- 



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