OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 

 could be mere matter and no more. 

 Like a dream of some spirit-land it 

 would appear, scarce fit to be touched 

 lest it should fall to pieces, too beautiful 

 to be long watched lest it should fade 

 away. 



So it seemed to me as a boy, sweet 

 and new like this each morning ; and 

 even now, after the years that have 

 passed, and the lines they have worn in 

 the forehead, the summer mead shines 

 as bright and fresh as when my foot 

 first touched the grass. It has another 

 meaning now: the sunshine and the 

 flowers speak differently, for a heart 

 that has once known sorrow reads be- 

 hind the page, and sees sadness in joy. 

 But the freshness is still there, the 

 dew washed the colours before dawn. 

 Unconscious happiness in finding wild- 

 flowers— unconscious and unquestioning 

 and therefore unbounded.— 'The Open 

 Air': Wild-Flowers. 



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