46 EARLY SPRING IN MASSACHUSETTS. 
The wind, the gusts, comb the hair of the water- 
nymphs. You never tire of seeing it drop, 
spread, and sweep over the yielding and sensi¬ 
tive surface. The water is full of life, now ris¬ 
ing into higher billow's which would make your 
mast crack if you had any, now subsiding into 
lesser, dashing against and wearing away the 
still anchored ice, setting many small cakes 
adrift. How they entertain us with ever-chang¬ 
ing scenes in the sky above or on the earth be¬ 
low. If the plowman lean on his plow handle 
and look up or down, there is danger that he 
will forget his labor on that day. 
March 3, 1838. Homer. Three thousand 
years and the world so little changed. The 
Iliad seems like a natural sound which has re¬ 
verberated to our days. Whatever in it is still 
freshest in the memories of men was most 
childlike in the poet. It is the problem of old 
age, a second childhood exhibited in the life of 
the world. Phoebus Apollo went like night, 
6 S ’ Yj'U vvktl Zolku) s . This either refers to the 
gross atmosphere of the plague, darkening the 
sun, or to the crescent of night, rising solemn 
and stately in the east, while the sun is setting 
in the west. 
Then Agamemnon darkly lowers on Calchas, 
prophet of evil, oor<xe Se ol Trvpl Aa/A7T£Toa)m k'LKTrjv , 
such a fire-eyed Agamemnon as you may see at 
