THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER 



splendour of life, yields a new thought 

 with every petal. The hours when the 

 mind is absorbed by beauty are the only 

 hours when we really live, so that the 

 longer we can stay among these things 

 so much the more is snatched from inev- 

 itable Time. Let the shadow advance 

 upon the dial I can watch it with equa- 

 nimity while it is there to be watched. 

 It is only when the shadow is not there, 

 when the clouds of winter cover it, that 

 the dial is terrible. The invisible shadow 

 goes on and steals from us. But now, 

 while I can see the shadow of the tree 

 and watch it slowly gliding along the 

 surface of the grass, it is mine. These 

 are the only hours that are not wasted 

 these hours that absorb the soul and 

 fill it with beauty. This is real life, 

 and all else is illusion, or mere endurance. 

 Does this reverie of flowers and waterfall 

 and song form an ideal, a human ideal, 

 in the mind? It does; much the same 

 ideal that Phidias sculptured of man and 



49 



