128 THE SOUTH COUNTRY 



mingling of the elements of joy to reappear when I look 

 back. The reason, perhaps, is that only an inmost true 

 self that desires and is in harmony with joy can perform 

 these long journeys, and when it has set out upon them 

 it sheds those gross incrustations which were our curse 

 before. 



Many are the scenes thus to be recalled without spot or 

 stain. It is a May morning, warm and slightly breezy 

 after midnight rain. In the beech-woods the trees are 

 unloading the dew, which drops from leaf to leaf and 

 down on to the lemon-tinged leaves of dark dog's-mer- 

 cury. At the edge of the wood the privet branches are 

 bent down by the weight of raindrops of the size of peas. 

 The dewy white stitchwort stars and the feathered grasses 

 are curved over on the banks. The sainfoin is hoary and 

 sparkling as I move. Already the sun is hot and the sky 

 blue, with faint white clouds in whirls. And in the 

 orchard-trees and drenched luxuriant hedges the garden- 

 warbler sings a subdued note of rushing, bubbling liquidity 

 as of some tiny brook that runs in quick pulsations among 

 the fleshy-leaved water-plants. The bird's head is up- 

 lifted; its throat is throbbing; it moves restlessly from 

 branch to branch, but always renews its song on the new 

 perch; being leaf-like, it is not easily seen. And some- 

 times through this continuous jargon the small, wild song 

 of the blackcap is heard, which is the utmost expression 

 of moist warm dawns in May thickets of hawthorn- 

 bloom and earliest roses. On such a dawn the very spirit 

 bathes in the dew and nuzzles into the fragrance with 

 delight; but it is no sooner left behind with May than it 

 has developed within me into an hour and a scene of 

 utmost grace and bliss, save that I am in it myself. 



