sight, and so hide their summer's house. The very openness was a 

 hiding process. And under the wide, high sky, where hang bird and star 

 and flower, and tree-twig with its bursting green, under that open these 

 beatitudes are hidden as ferns are hid under a sandstone ledge, deep in 

 a wood and wet with a perpetual shower of dripping from the stony roof. 

 So much to see, so little seen; that is our grief. How we have let sum- 

 mers waste! Sparrows are not less provident. Nature's bounty runs 

 to waste, or, what is worse, runs to weed. And a poet thought of this 



A WOODLAND POOL OF DOGTOOTH VIOLETS 



(and, as for that, what have not the poets thought of ? Some one of 

 them has left a caress on every flower of the field as the winds do): 



"There are flowerets down in the valley low 

 And over the mountain side, 

 That were never praised by a human voice 

 Nor by human eye descried; 

 But sweet as the breath of the royal rose 

 Is the perfume they exhale; 

 And where they bloom and why they bloom 

 The good Lord knoweth well.'" 

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