6 MY DEVON YEAR 



partook of their natures, reposed with them under the 

 sun, and felt a child in the eye of the grey granite, a 

 hoary sage seen by the little vanishing blossoms; to-day 

 granite and heather are removed from me and know 

 me no more. There is a spirit abroad, and they 

 are uplifted ; but I am as I was yesterday, and see 

 nothingr. 



The poets have stood upon the fringes of these 

 trances, and felt them. More they have not done — for 

 who may find words for states beyond human under- 

 standing ? Who can set down the secret spirit of 

 those days when the veil is drawn between us and the 

 familiar forests and high hills ? They are caught 

 away from us at such times, rapt away into mystery 

 deeper than our hearts can fathom or our senses read. 

 There are no words for these moments, and the 

 greatest have but set forth negative pictures of them, 

 for to say what they are not is only less difficult than 

 to say what they are. To say what they are not may 

 be possible to a poet ; to say what they are is im- 

 possible to all men, for such ineffable moments are 

 beyond words and above ideas. From the wise and 

 prudent most surely are they concealed ; to the spirit 

 of the child they may by possibility appear when, 

 wandering alone, unencumbered with mental trash, he 

 still vivifies each blade and bud as the use of children 

 is ; still sees little, conscious lives, full as his own, in 

 each bird and hurrying mouse, each flower and fern ; 

 still protests with an active, infantile indignation at the 

 destruction of the worst equipped ; still unconsciously 



