72 MY DEA ON YEAR 



whose dust lies near my footsteps in this musical 

 resting-place of the dead. 



The flowers are nodding his metres to me. He 

 saw them ; he wove an enduring string of diamonds 

 from the dew in a daffodil, fashioned gems from the 

 violet and the primrose, the herb and the tree, the 

 clean glory of daybreak, and the splendours of 

 sunsets. All materials were good if sweet and in 

 colour pure. Musk and amber, coral and ivory 

 may be the settings of his jewels, but these are 

 forgotten and forgiven for the workmanship. At 

 his highest — and by his highest alone shall a dead 

 man be rated — he walks hand in hand with Nature 

 as only a supreme artist may. 



A cool air dries the dew of the churchyard ; jack- 

 daws chime above the belfry ; great humble-bees 

 labour in the wild hyacinths and struggle over the 

 grasses, their thighs heavy-laden with flower pollen — 

 and all tell of Herrick. The essence of his verse 

 haunts his grave for ever. Many places I know fit 

 for the sleep of poets, yet none more in keeping with 

 the particular dust of its own singer than this. For 

 round about are the scenes he saw, the sounds he 

 heard and turned into music, the enduring bosoms 

 of hills ; the leaf and flower and berry in its season, 

 and the human nature of the soil, whose garment and 

 manners change but slowly, whose self changes not. 



Pretty women live here still, though sweet epitha- 

 lamiums are no longer sung for them when they come 

 to their husbands ; little children fall off untimely ; 



