THE PAGEANT OF SUMMER. 45 



the summer, the flowers and the azure sky, shall 

 become, as it were, interwoven into man's existence. 

 He shall take from all their beauty and enjoy their 

 glory. Hence it is that a flower is to me so much 

 more than stalk and petals. When I look in the glass 

 I see that every line in my face means pessimism ; but 

 in spite of my face — that is my experience — I remain 

 an optimist. Time with an unsteady hand has etched 

 thin crooked lines, and, deepening 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 on- 

 wards 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-grown willow, and its slender branches 

 extend over the sward. Beyond it is an oak, just 

 apart from the bushes ; then the ground gently rises, 

 and an ancient pollard ash, hollow and black inside, 

 guards an open gateway like a low tower. The 

 different tone of green shows that the hedge is there 

 of nut-trees ; but one great hawthorn spreads out in a 

 semicircle, roofing the grass which is yet more verdant 



