128 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



little shouts of laughter and singing songs 

 learned from the roar of breakers on gray rocks, 

 come down to drink them up ; so the stars of this 

 under-forest heaven remain to keep the bedstraw 

 constellations company until nearly noon. By 

 way of the lower heaven of bedstraw blooms the 

 eye rises easily to the forest of jewel-weeds. 

 These at least are rightly, if unconsciously, 

 named. It is not only the bloom but the whole 

 weed that is a jewel when the morning sun is low 

 and the reflected light slides level into the forest 

 among purple stems that shoal into transparent 

 green as they slender toward the leaves. These, 

 too, seem transluscent and glow, and then some 

 sprite seems to have suddenly turned on the jew- 

 els. Strange that they did not flash to my eyes 

 even before I came to the place, on my way down 

 the hill. Perhaps it is some trick of light and 

 shade that makes them flash on at a certain time 

 and glow like transparent gold shot through with 

 light. No jeweller could make these: they are 

 such as a fairy prince might hang on the pale 

 green breast of a dryad, a nuptial gift of surpass- 

 ing value out of fairy coffers. 



At the thought I see more clearly still and each 

 plant becomes a slender personality of the forest, 



