Unfading as motionless , the worm frets them not , and 
the Autumn fades them not. Strong in loveliness , they 
neither blanch in heat nor pine in frost. To them , slow- 
pngered , constant-hearted , /.v entrusted the weaving of 
the dark , eternal tapestries of the hills; to them , slow- 
pencilled\ iris-dyed , the tender framing of their endless 
imagery. Sharing the stillness of the unimpassioned 
rock , they share also its endurance , and while the winds 
of departing Spring scatter the white hawthorn blossom 
like drifted snow , Summer dims on the parched 
meadow the drooping of its cowslip gold ., far above , 
among the mountains , the silver Lichen-spots rest star- 
like on the stone; and the gathering orange stain upon 
the edge of yonder rock refects the sunsets of a thousand 
years. — Ruskin , Modern Painters , Z 5 . T V, Chap. 10 . 
