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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 can see the shadow of the tree and watch it slowly
gliding along the surface of the grass； it is mine。 These are the
only hours that are not wasted … these hours that absorb the soul
and fill it with beauty。 This is real life； and all else is
illusion； or mere endurance。 Does this reverie of flowers and
waterfall and song form an ideal； a human ideal； in the mind？ It
does； much the same ideal that Phidias sculptured of man and woman
filled with a godlike sense of the violet fields of Greece；
beautiful beyond thought； calm as my turtle…dove before the lurid
lightning of the unknown。 To be beautiful and to be calm； without
mental fear； is the ideal of nature。 If I cannot achieve it； at
least I can think it。
End