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the midst of their mighty branches。 A glamour in the heart came
back to it again from every flower； as the sunshine was reflected
from them； so the feeling in the heart returned tenfold。 To the
dreamy summer haze； love gave a deep enchantment； the colours were
fairer； the blue more lovely in the lucid sky。 Each leaf finer；
and the gross earth enamelled beneath the feet。 A sweet breath on
the air； a soft warm hand in the touch of the sunshine； a glance in
the gleam of the rippled waters； a whisper in the dance of the
shadows。 The ethereal haze lifted the heavy oaks and they were
buoyant on the mead； the rugged bark was chastened and no longer
rough； each slender flower beneath them again refined。 There was a
presence everywhere； though unseen； on the open hills； and not shut
out under the dark pines。 Dear were the June roses then because
for another gathered。 Yet even dearer now with so many years as it
were upon the petals； all the days that have been before； all the
heart…throbs； all our hopes lie in this opened bud。 Let not the
eyes grow dim； look not back but forward； the soul must uphold
itself like the sun。 Let us labour to make the heart grow larger
as we become older； as the spreading oak gives more shelter。 That
we could but take to the soul some of the greatness and the beauty
of the summer！
Still the pageant moves。 The song…talk of the finches rises and
sinks like the tinkle of a waterfall。 The green…finches have been
by me all the while。 A bullfinch pipes now and then further up the
hedge where the brambles and thorns are thickest。 Boldest of birds
to look at； he is always in hiding。 The shrill tone of a goldfinch
came just now from the ash branches； but he has gone on。 Every
four or five minutes a chaffinch sings close by； and another fills
the interval near the gateway。 There are linnets somewhere； but I
cannot from the old apple tree fix their exact place。 Thrushes
have sung and ceased； they will begin again in ten minutes。 The
blackbirds do not cease； the note uttered by a blackbird in the oak
yonder before it can drop is taken up by a second near the top of
the field； and ere it falls is caught by a third on the left…hand
side。 From one of the topmost boughs of an elm there fell the song
of a willow warbler for a while； one of the least of birds； he
often seeks the highest branches of the highest tree。
A yellowhammer has just flown from a bare branch in the gateway；
where he has been perched and singing a full hour。 Presently he
will commence again； and as the sun declines will sing him to the
horizon； and then again sing till nearly dusk。 The yellowhammer is
almost the longest of all the singers； he sits and sits and has no
inclination to move。 In the spring he sings； in the summer he
sings； and he continues when the last sheaves are being carried
from the wheat field。 The redstart yonder has given forth a few
notes； the whitethroat flings himself into the air at short
intervals and chatters； the shrike calls sharp and determined；
faint but shrill calls descend from the swifts in the air。 These
descend； but the twittering notes of the swallows do not reach so
far … they are too high to…day。 A cuckoo has called by the brook；
and now fainter from a greater distance。 That the titlarks are
singing I know； but not within hearing from here； a dove； though；
is audible； and a chiffchaff has twice passed。 Afar beyond the
oaks at the top of the field dark specks ascend from time to time；
and after moving in wide circles for a while descend again to the
corn。 These must be larks； but their notes are not powerful enough
to reach me； though they would were it not for the song in the
hedges； the hum of innumerable insects； and the ceaseless 〃crake；
crake〃 of landrails。 There are at least two landrails in the
mowing…grass； one of them just now seemed coming straight towards
the apple tree； and I expected in a minute to see the grass move；
when the bird turned aside and entered the tufts and wild parsley
by the hedge。 Thence the call has come without a moment's pause；
〃crake； crake；〃 till the thick hedge seems filled with it。 Tits
have visited the apple tree over my head； a wren has sung in the
willow； or rather on a dead branch projecting lower down than the
leafy boughs； and a robin across under the elms in the opposite
hedge。 Elms are a favourite tree of robins … not the upper
branches； but those that grow down the trunk； and are the first to
have leaves in spring。
The yellowhammer is the most persistent individually； but I think
the blackbirds when listened to are the masters of the fields。
Before one can finish； another begins； like the summer ripples
succeeding behind each other； so that the melodious sound merely
changes its position。 Now here； now in the corner； then across the
field； again in the distant copse； where it seems about to sink；
when it rises again almost at hand。 Like a great human artist； the
blackbird makes no effort； being fully conscious that his liquid
tone cannot be matched。 He utters a few delicious notes； and
carelessly quits the green stage of the oak till it pleases him to
sing again。 Without the blackbird； in whose throat the sweetness
of the green fields dwells； the days would be only partly summer。
Without the violet； all the bluebells and cowslips could not make a
spring； and without the blackbird； even the nightingale would be
but half welcome。 It is not yet noon； these songs have been
ceaseless since dawn； this evening； after the yellowhammer has sung
the sun down； when the moon rises and the faint stars appear； still
the cuckoo will call； and the grasshopper lark； the landrail's
〃crake； crake〃 will echo from the mound； a warbler or a blackcap
will utter his notes； and even at the darkest of the summer night
the swallows will hardly sleep in their nests。 As the morning sky
grows blue； an hour before the sun； up will rise the larks； singing
and audible now； the cuckoo will recommence； and the swallows will
start again on their tireless journey。 So that the songs of the
summer birds are as ceaseless as the sound of the waterfall which
plays day and night。
I cannot leave it； I must stay under the old tree in the midst of
the long grass； the luxury of the leaves； and the song in the very
air。 I seem as if I could feel all the glowing life the sunshine
gives and the south wind calls to being。 The endless grass； the
endless leaves； the immense strength of the oak expanding； the
unalloyed joy of finch and blackbird； from all of them I receive a
little。 Each gives me something of the pure joy they gather for
themselves。 In the blackbird's melody one note is mine； in the
dance of the leaf shadows the formed maze is for me； though the
motion is theirs； the flowers with a thousand faces have collected
the kisses of the morning。 Feeling with them； I receive some； at
least； of their fulness of life。 Never could I have enough； never
stay long enough … whether here or whether lying on the shorter
sward under the sweeping and graceful birches； or on the thyme…
scented hills。 Hour after hour； and still not enough。 Or walking
the footpath was never long enough； or my strength sufficient to
endure till the mind was weary。 The exceeding beauty of the earth；
in her splendour of life； yields a new thought with every petal。
The hours when the mind is absorbed by beauty are the only hours
when we really live； so that the longer we can stay among these
things so much the more is snatched from inevitable Time。 Let the
shadow advance upon the dial … I can watch it with equanimity while
it is there to be watched。 It is only when the shadow is NOT
there； when the clouds of winter cover it； that the dial is
terrible。 The invisible shadow goes on and steals from us。 But
now； while I