IReturn to mature 



a sign of human life could be seen. A 

 stream is always the central line, the axis 

 upon which the charming solitude has been 

 revolving through the ages. And in the 

 damp, still thickets along the water's way- 

 lives the wood-thrush, with his wonderful 

 song-phrase always at his beak-tip. He 

 sings of the lily, the lily that I have never 

 seen, the " mountain-strolling lily " — 

 oupsoLipoiTa /.piva — known to Meleager. 



Why not think over again the far-off 

 poet's delightful felicity of expression? 

 Here I am beside a gurgling stream, deep 

 in the stillness of eld, surrounded by the 

 divina voluptas distilled from substances 

 absolutely pure. What I breathe is un- 

 sophisticated, what I assimilate can build 

 up no imperfect tissues, make no feverish 

 blood. The wood-thrush and I, we have 

 found Arethusa, we have lipped and beaked 

 a smack of Hybla. We hum in unison : 



The mountain-strolling lilies blow — 

 hakXv, 8' oipsaitpoi'ca v.ptva. 



I demand explanation. What is this 

 haunting sub-thought, not quite reachable, 

 176 



