2i8 THE LIFE OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



delicate than the minute filaments on a swallow's quill, 

 more delicate than the pollen of a flower. They are 

 formed of matter indeed, but how exquisitely it is re- 

 solved into the means and organs of life ! Though not 

 often consciously recognized, perhaps this is the great 

 pleasure of summer, to watch the earth, the dead particles, 

 resolving themselves into the living case of life, to see 

 the seed-leaf push aside the clod and become by degrees 

 the perfumed flower. From the tiny mottled egg come 

 the wings that by-and-by shall pass the immense sea. 

 It is in this marvellous transformation of clods and cold 

 matter into living things that the joy and the hope of 

 summer reside. Every blade of grass, each leaf, each 

 separate floret and petal, is an inscription speaking of 

 hope. Consider the grasses and the oaks, the swallows, 

 the sweet blue butterfly — they are one and all a sign and 

 token showing before our eyes earth made into life. So 

 that my hope becomes as broad as the horizon afar, 

 reiterated by every leaf, sung on every bough, reflected 

 in the gleam of every flower. There is so much for us 

 yet to come, so much to be gathered and enjoyed. Not 

 for you or me, now, but for our race, who will ultimately 

 use this magical secret for their happiness. Earth holds 

 secrets enough to give them the life of the fabled Im- 

 mortals. My heart is fixed firm and stable in the behef 

 that ultimately the sunshine and the summer, the flowers 

 and the azure sky, shall become, as it were, interwoven 

 into man's existence. He shall take from all their beauty 

 and enjoy their glory. Hence it is that a flower is to me 

 so much more than stalk and petals. When I look in the 

 glass I see that every line in my face means pessimism ; 

 but in spite of my face — that is my experience — I remain 

 an optimist. Time with an unsteady hand has etched 

 thin crooked lines, and, deepening the hollows, has cast 

 the original expression into shadow. Pain and sorrow 

 flow over us with little ceasing, as the sea-hoofs beat on 

 the beach. Let us not look at ourselves, but onwards, 

 and take strength from the leaf and the signs of the field. 



