OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



I WILL concentrate my mind on my 

 own little path of life, and steadily 

 gaze downwards. In vain. Who 

 can do so ? who can care alone for his 

 or her petty trifles of existence that has 

 once entered amongst the wild-flowers ? 

 How shall I shut out the sun ? Shall I 

 deny the constellations of the night ? 

 They are there ; the mystery is for ever 

 about us— the question, the hope, the 

 aspiration cannot be put out. So that 

 it is almost a pain not to be able to cease 

 observing and tracing the untraceable 

 maze of beauty.— 'The Open Air': Wild- 

 Flowers. 



THE little brown wren finds her 

 way through the great thicket 

 of hawthorn. How does she 

 know her path, hidden by a thousand 

 thousand leaves ? Tangled and crushed 

 together by their own growth, a crown 



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