WINDS OF HEAVEN. 47 
May-flies. Their ephemeral wings were made for a more 
exquisite life; they endure but one sun ; they bear not 
the touch of the water; they die like a dream dropping 
into the river. To the amethyst in the deep ditch the 
wind comes; no petal so hidden under green it cannot 
find ; to the blue hill-flower up by the sky ; it lifts the 
guilty head of the passionate poppy that has sinned in 
the sun for love. Sweet is the rain the wind brings to 
the wallflower browned in the heat, a-dry on the crum- 
bling stone. Pleasant the sunbeams to the marigold when 
the wind has carried the rain away and his sun-disc glows 
on the bank. Acres of perfume come on the wind from 
the black and white of the bean-field ; the firs fill the air 
by the copse with perfume. I know nothing to which 
the wind has not some happy use. Is there a grain of 
dust so small the wind shall not find it out? Ground in 
the mill-wheel of the centuries, the iron of the distant 
mountain floats like gossamer, and is drunk up as dew 
by leaf:and living lung. A thousand miles of cloud go 
by from morn till night, passing overhead without a 
sound ; the immense packs, a mile square, succeed to 
each other, side by side, laid parallel, book-shape, coming 
up from the horizon and widening as they approach. 
From morn till night the silent footfalls of the ponderous 
vapours travel overhead, no sound, no creaking of the 
wheels and rattling of the chains; it is calm at the 
earth, but the wind labours without an effort above, with 
such ease, with such power. Grey smoke hangs on the 
hill-side where the couch-heaps are piled, a cumulus of 
smoke; the wind comes, and it draws its length along 
like the genii from the earthen pot; there leaps up a 
great red flame shaking its head ; it shines in the bright 
sunlight ; you can see it across the valley. 
A perfect summer day with a strong south wind; a 
