WINDS OF HEAVEN. 47 



May-flics. Their ephemeral wings were made for a more 

 exquisite life ; they endure but one sun ; they bear not 

 the touch of the water ; they die like a dream dropping 

 into the river. To the amethyst in the deep ditch the 

 wind comes ; no petal so hidden under green it cannot 

 find ; to the blue hill-flower up by the sky ; it lifts the 

 guilty head of the passionate poppy that has sinned in 

 the sun for love. Sweet is the rain the wind brings to 

 the wallflower browned in the heat, a-dry on the crum- 

 bling stone. Pleasant the sunbeams to the marigold when 

 the wind has carried the rain away and his sun-disc glows 

 on the bank. Acres of perfume come on the wind from 

 the black and white of the bean-field ; the firs fill the air 

 by the copse with perfume. I know nothing to which 

 the wind has not some happy use. Is there a grain of 

 dust so small the wind shall not find it out ? Ground in 

 the mill-wheel of the centuries, the iron of the distant 

 mountain floats like gossamer, and is drunk up as dew 

 by leaf and living lung. A thousand miles of cloud go 

 by from morn till night, passing overhead without a 

 sound ; the immense packs, a mile square, succeed to 

 each other, side by side, laid parallel, book-shape, coming 

 up from the horizon and widening as they approach. 

 From morn till night the silent footfalls of the ponderous 

 vapours travel overhead, no sound, no creaking of the 

 wheels and rattling of the chains ; it is calm at the 

 earth, but the wind labours without an effort above, with 

 such ease, with such power. Grey smoke hangs on the 

 hill-side where the couch-heaps are piled, a cumulus of 

 smoke ; the wind comes, and it draws its length along 

 like the genii from the earthen pot ; there leaps up a 

 great red flame shaking its head ; it shines in the bright 

 sunlight ; you can see it across the valley. 



A perfect summer day with a strong south wind ; a 



