THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER 



again, half wheels round, and by and by 

 just when he chooses, and not before 

 floats away. The flowers open, and remain 

 open for hours, to the sun. Hasteless- 

 ness is the only word one can make up to 

 describe it; there is much rest, but no 

 haste. Each moment, as with the green- 

 finches, is so full of life that it seems so 

 long and so sufficient in itself. Not only 

 the days, but life itself lengthens in sum- 

 mer. I would spread abroad my arms and 

 gather more of it to me, could I do so. 



All the procession of living and growing 

 things passes. The grass stands up taller 

 and still taller, the sheaths open, and the 

 stalk arises, the pollen clings till the breeze 

 sweeps it. The bees rush past, and the 

 resolute wasps ; the humble bees, whose 

 weight swings them along. About the 

 oaks and maples the brown chafers swarm, 

 and the fern-owls at dusk, and the black- 

 birds and jays by day, cannot reduce their 

 legions while they last. Yellow butter- 

 flies, and white, broad red admirals, and 



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