OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



wind calls to being. The endless grass, 

 the endless leaves, the immense strength 

 of the oak expanding, the unalloyed joy 

 of finch and blackbird ; from all of 

 them I receive a little. Each gives me 

 something of the pure joy they gather for 

 themselves. In the blackbird's melody 

 one note is mine ; in the dance of the 

 leaf shadows the formed maze is for 

 me, though the motion is theirs; the 

 flowers with a thousand faces have 

 collected the kisses of the morning. 

 Feeling with them, I receive some, at 

 least, of their fulness of life. Never 

 could I have enough; never stay long 

 enough— whether here or whether lying 

 on the shorter sward under the sweeping 

 and graceful birches, or on the thyme- 

 scented hills. Hour after hour and still 

 not enough. Or walking, the footpath 

 was never long enough, or my strength 

 sufficient to endure till the mind was 

 weary. The exceeding beauty of the 



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