THE PROCESSION OF THE FLOWERS 53 
of books seems barren or vanishing, compared 
with the immortal bequest of hours like these. 
Other sources of illumination seem cisterns 
only; these are fountains. They may not in- 
crease the mere quantity of available thought, 
but they impart to it a quality which is price- 
less. No man can measure what a single hour 
with Nature may have contributed to the mould- 
ing of his mind. The influence is self-renew- 
ing, and if for a long time it baffles expression 
by reason of its fineness, so much the better in 
the end. 
The soul is like a musical instrument : it is 
not enough that it be framed for the most deli- 
cate vibration, but it must vibrate long and 
often before the fibres grow mellow to the finest 
waves of sympathy. I perceive that in the 
veery’s carolling, the clover’s scent, the glisten- 
ing of the water, the waving wings of butter- 
flies, the sunset tints, the floating clouds, there 
are attainable infinitely more subtile modula- 
tions of thought than I can yet reach the sensi- 
bility to discriminate, much less describe. If 
in the simple process of writing one could phy- 
sically impart to this page the fragrance of this 
spray of Azalea beside me, what a wonder would 
it seem ! — and yet one ought to be able, by the 
mere use of language, to supply to every reader 
the total of that white, honeyed, trailing sweet- 
