THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER 



gives and the south wind calls to being. 

 The endless grass, the endless leaves, 

 the immense strength of the oak expand- 

 ing, the unalloyed joy of finch and 

 blackbird; from all of them I receive 

 a little. Each gives me something of 

 the pure joy they gather for themselves. 

 In the blackbird's melody one note is 

 mine; in the dance of the leaf shadows 

 the formed maze is for me, though the 

 motion is theirs; the flowers with a 

 thousand faces have collected the kisses 

 of the morning. Feeling with them, I 

 receive some, at least, of their fulness 

 of life. Never could I have enough; 

 never stay long enough whether here 

 or whether lying on the shorter sward 

 under the sweeping and graceful birches, 

 or on the thyme-scented hills. Hour 

 after hour, and still not enough. Or 

 walking the footpath was never long 

 enough, or my strength sufficient to 

 endure till the mind was weary. The 

 exceeding beauty of the earth, in her 



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