OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



WHEN the east wind ceases, 

 and the sun shines above, 

 and the flowers beneath 'a 

 summer's day in lusty May,' then is the 

 time an Interlude in Heaven. — 'Amaryllis 

 at the Fair.' 



THAT is the saddest of thoughts 

 — as we grow older the 

 romance fades, and all things 

 become commonplace. 

 Half our lives are spent in wishing for 

 to-morrow, the other half in wishing for 

 yesterday. 



Wild-flowers alone never become com- 

 monplace. The white wood-sorrel at 

 the foot of the oak, the violet in the 

 hedge of the vale, the thyme on the 

 wind-swept downs, they were as fresh 

 this year as last, as dear to-day as 

 twenty years since, even dearer, for they 

 grow now, as it were, in the earth we 

 have made for them of our hopes, our 



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