THE END OF WINTER 21 



grey in the midst of a haze, here brown, there rosy, of 

 branches and swelling buds. Though but a quarter of a 

 mile away in this faintly clouded air they are very small, 

 aerial in substance, infinitely remote from the road on 

 which I stand, and more like reflections in calm water 

 than real things. 



At the lower margin of the wood the overhanging 

 branches form blue caves, and out of these emerge the 

 songs of many hidden birds. I know that there are bland 

 melodious blackbirds of easy musing voices, robins whose 

 earnest song, though full of passion, is but a fragment that 

 has burst through a more passionate silence, hedge- 

 sparrows of liquid confiding monotone, brisk acid wrens, 

 chaffinches and yellowhammers saying always the same 

 thing (a dear but courtly praise of the coming season), 

 larks building spires above spires into the sky, thrushes of 

 infinite variety that talk and talk of a thousand things, 

 never thinking, always talking of the moment, exclaim- 

 ing, scolding, cheering, flattering, coaxing, challenging, 

 with merry-hearted, bold voices that must have been the 

 same in the morning of the world when the forest trees 

 lay, or leaned, or hung, where they fell. Yet I can 

 distinguish neither blackbird, nor robin, nor hedge- 

 sparrow, nor any one voice. All are blent into one seeth- 

 ing stream of song. It is one song, not many. It is one 

 spirit that sings. Mixed with them is the myriad stir of 

 unborn things, of leaf and blade and flower, many silences 

 at heart and root of tree, voices of hope and growth, of 

 love that will be satisfied though it leap upon the swords 

 of life. Yet not during all the day does the earth truly 

 awaken. Even in town and city the dream prevails, and 



