WILD FLOWERS 275 



The reeds, the grasses, the rushes unknown 

 and new things at every step something always to 

 find ; no barren spot anywhere, or sameness. Every 

 day the grass painted anew, and its green seen for the 

 first time; not the old green, but a novel hue and 

 spectacle, like the first view of the sea. 



If we had never before looked upon the earth, but 

 suddenly came to it man or woman grown, set down 

 in the midst of a summer mead, would it not seem 

 to us a radiant vision? The hues, the shapes, the 

 song and life of birds, above all the sunlight, the 

 breath of heaven, resting on it; the mind would be 

 filled with its glory, unable to grasp it, hardly believ- 

 ing that such things could be mere matter and no 

 more. Like a dream of some spirit-land it would 

 appear, scarce fit to be touched lest it should fall to 

 pieces, too beautiful to be long watched lest it should 

 fade away. So it seemed to me as a boy, sweet and 

 new like this each morning; and even now, after 

 the years that have passed, and the lines they have 

 worn in the forehead, the summer mead shines as 

 bright and fresh as when my foot first touched the 

 grass. It has another meaning now; the sunshine 

 and the flowers speak differently, for a heart that 

 has once known sorrow reads behind the page, and 

 sees sadness in joy. But the freshness is still there, 

 the dew washes the colors before dawn. Uncon- 

 scious happiness in finding wild flowers uncon- 

 scious and unquestioning, and therefore unbounded. 



