There had been a perceptible rise and quick- 

 ening of the current. It was slightly roiled and 

 carried a floatage of broken twigs, torn leaves, 

 with here and there a golden-green tulip-petal, 

 like the broken wings of butterflies. 



I was in no hurry now, in no disquietude. 

 The swamp and the storm were at my back. 

 Before me lay the pond, the pastures, and the 

 roofs of a human village— all bathed in the 

 splendor of the year's divinest hour. It had not 

 been a perfect day, but these closing hours were 

 perfect, so perfect that they redeemed the whole, 

 and not that day only : they were perfect 

 enough to have redeemed the whole of creation 

 travailing till then in pain. 



Because I turned from all this sunset glory to 

 find out what little bird was making the very big 

 fuss near by, and because, parting the foliage of 

 an arrow-wood bush, I looked with exquisite 

 pleasure into the nest of a white-eyed vireo, 

 does it mean that I am still unborn as to soul? 

 For some reason it was a relief to look away 

 from that west of vast and burning color to the 

 delicately dotted eggs in the tiny cradle— the 

 same relief felt in descending from a mountain- 

 [142] 



