cling in sheer fertility, and valleys where deep green of cornfields is 
islanded in seas of amethyst, and in June, harvests are billowy with gold 
whose stately waves toss and break on a green strand of the field edge 
with never a white crest of billow, nor a sound of waters breaking on the 
shore, and when the grain is harvested and stands in tents of gold as if 
an army of angels were camped there upon a holiday—ah! but the valley 
is sweet to look upon; and in such golden days of harvests, I have some- 
times dreamed I was looking upon the city (where my hopes and my 
loves build a little house eternal in the heavens), whose streets are pure 
gold. And if angels would come flying homeward on a summer after- 
noon and look, they would think that they were nearer than they dreamed. 
And, besides, this view is a surprise, for the road that comes from the 
south leading straight up to it must take a sharp turn when it passes my 
hedge and jog into my land—when through the lattice of the trees and 
through the gateway in my woods—this fair vision breaks on you like 
the vision poets see. This crop never fails me (the other crops never 
succeed). Drouth, hot winds, too late spring, or too early spring, insects 
of divers names but all with ravenous instincts, poor plowing or no 
plowing, late sowing, or too early sowing, or no sowing whatsoever (I 
have had considerable of this kind of crops last mentioned), whatever 
the condition and whatever happens to the crops I put in, nothing 
tampers with this harvest of beauty and this blessed vintage. God 
always gives me this crop. O! it is good to own this farm! 
Rest your eyes now, friend (pardon me, your name slips my mem- 
ory), from that long vision and look behind you. This is my red clover- 
field. If I am proud of this bit of landscape gardening, do not blame 
me. This red clover pasture here on this hilltop has a dreamy sway as 
if a wind blew from very far off. But when that leaf of the clover 
(have you noticed its perfect shape, and the inroads the varying lines of 
green make on the leaf?) flushes out a smile to spring, so like a plain 
face illuminated with a great love, it is well worth a pilgrimage to see, 
and | think nothing could be lovelier. But when June comes with her 
sweet beauty, and kisses the green clover fronds and they blaze out 
blossoming, then I know God made nothing lovelier (save children and 
women only); and when the soft south wind dreams over the field and 
comes away with faint odors clinging to its garments, then I wonder God 
could think on so many sweet things to do. I wonder he has any beauty 
left to give to any field or flower; but he needs not to study parsimony 
as the poets do. He hath, and to him hath been given and he giveth 
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