IReturn to IPlature 



a sign of human life could be seen. A 

 stream is always the central line, the axis 

 upon which the charming solitude has been 

 revolving through the ages. And in the 

 damp, still thickets along the water's way 

 lives the wood-thrush, with his wonderful 

 song-phrase always at his beak- tip. He 

 sings of the lily, the lily that I have never 

 seen, the " mountain-strolling lily " — 

 oupsai^oira xpiva — known to Meleager. 



Why not think over again the far-off 

 poet's delightful feHcity of expression? 

 Here I am beside a gurgling stream, deep 

 in the stillness of eld, surrounded by the 

 divina voluptas distilled from substances 

 absolutely pure. What I breathe is un- 

 sophisticated, what I assimilate can build 

 up no imperfect tissues, make no feverish 

 blood. The wood-thrush and I, we have 

 found Arethusa, we have lipped and beaked 

 a smack of Hybla. We hum in unison: 



The mountain-strolling lilies blow— 



I demand explanation. What is this 

 haunting sub-thought, not quite reachable, 

 176 



