IX 



A FEAST OF WILD STRAWBERRIES 



There's many a child has crowned her head with 

 Buttercups — no bad substitute for gold — mirrored her 

 face in a pool, and dreamed she was a Queen. There's 

 many a boy has lain for hours in the Wild Thyme on a 

 cliff top and sent dream-fleets to Spain. The touch of 

 imagination is all that is required to make the world 

 seem real, and not until that wand is used is the world 

 real. Only those moments when we hear the stars, 

 peer in through Heaven's gates, or rub shoulders with 

 a poet's vision, are real and substantial ; the rest is 

 only dreamland, vague, unsatisfactory. Huddled rows 

 of dingy houses, smoke, grime, roar of traffic, scramble 

 for the pence that make the difference, these things are 

 not abiding thoughts — " Here there is no abiding city " 

 — but those great moments when we grow as the flowers 

 grow, sing as the birds sing, and feel at ease with the 

 furthest stars, those are the moments we live in and 

 remember. Our great garden may hold our thoughts 

 if we wish. When we own England with our eyes, when 

 all the fields and woods, the mountain streams, the 

 pools and rills, rivers and ponds, are ours ; when 

 we are on our own ground with Ling and Broom, 

 Heather, Heath and Furze for our carpet ; when 

 Harebells ring our matin's bell and Speedwell close 

 the day for us ; when the Water-lily is our cup, 

 broad leaves of Dock our platter, and King-cups 



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