THE BEAUTY OF FLOWERS 285 



nature of things that the beauty of autumn should 

 differ from the beauty of spring. We do not feel any 

 human waste or perversity in the decHne of the year 

 any more than in the sunset. There is sometimes a 

 fashion among poets to lament the autumn; but 

 that is only because they produce melodious tears 

 more easily than melodious laughter. There is no 

 true analogy, as we all know, between 



Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang — 



and the old age of men; for spring follows winter, 

 but age does not change into youth. It is the great 

 merit of Keats's "Ode to Autumn" that it is full of 

 delight in that delightful season without any han- 

 kering after another. 



Where are the songs of spring ? Ay, where are they ? 



Think not of them, thou hast thy music, too, — 

 While barred clouds bloom the soft dying day. 



And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 

 Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 



Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

 Or sinking as the light wind Uves or dies. 



So it is, too, with the flowers of autumn. They have 

 their own beauty, and it is mere wilfulness of fancy 

 and waste of emotion to connect it with thoughts of 

 death and irrevocable loss. In all wild flowers there 

 is a free gift of delight to us, with no poison in it and 

 nothing to provoke criticism. They seem to express 

 a happiness inherent in life, to be the art of nature 



