THE HAUNT OF THE ANCHORITE 



I AM lying on the confines of a wood where I have 

 lain for an hour. Such a multitude of sights and 

 sounds are around that the eye and ear seem hardly 

 capable of absorbing them. And yet there are no 

 blurred impressions, no confusion of sounds. The 

 eye faithfully reproduces each picture, the ear each 

 soft swish of the pines. Is the beauty of this leafy 

 woodland way in itself, or only in the eye of the 

 observer? 



" Are these sweet sounds of the early season, 



And these fair sights of its early days ? 



Are they only sweet when we fondly listen, 



And only fair when we fondly gaze ?" 



The poets have told us that what we call Nature is 

 but our own conceit of what we see, and doubtless 

 they are right. We find our own complexion 

 everywhere, and receive but what we give. And so 

 it becomes literally true that 



" There is no glory in star or blossom, 

 Till looked upon by a loving eye ; 

 There is no fragrance in April breezes, 

 Till breathed with joy as they wander by." 



Doubtless it is this unconscious appeal to the inner 

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