THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER 



beneath them again refined. There was 

 a presence everywhere with us though 

 unseen, with us on the open hills, and not 

 shut out under the dark pines. Dear 

 were the June roses then because for 

 another gathered. Yet even dearer now 

 with so many years as it were upon the 

 petals; all the days that have been 

 before, all the heart-throbs, all our hopes 

 lie in this opened bud. Let not the eyes 

 grow dim, look not back but forward; 

 the soul must uphold itself like the sun. 

 Let us labour to make the heart grow 

 larger as we become older, as the spread- 

 ing oak gives more shelter. That we 

 could but take to the soul some of the 

 greatness and the beauty of the summer! 

 Still the pageant moves. The song- 

 talk of the finches rises and sinks like the 

 tinkle of a waterfall. The greenfinches 

 have been by me all the while. A bull- 

 finch pipes now and then further up the 

 hedge where the brambles and thorns are 

 thickest. Boldest of birds to look at, he 



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