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verses； uncertain with the regularity of the madrigal； and inconstant with
the punctuality of a stanza； she has gone with the arts of that day； and
neither verse nor music will ever make such another lady。 She refused to
observe the transiency of roses； she never really intendedmuch as she
was urgedto be a shepherdess； she was never persuaded to mitigate her
dress。 In return； the world has let her disappear。 She scorned the poets
until they turned upon her in the epigram of many a final couplet； and of
these the last has been long written。 Her 〃No〃 was set to counterpoint in
the part…song； and she frightened Love out of her sight in a ballet。 Those
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occupations are gone； and the lovely Elizabethan has slipped away。 She
was something less than mortal。
But she who was more than mortal was mortal too。 This was no lady
of the unanimous lyrists； but a rare visitant unknown to these exquisite
little talents。 She was not set for singing； but poetry spoke of her；
sometimes when she was sleeping； and then Fletcher said …
None can rock Heaven to sleep but her。
Or when she was singing； and Carew rhymed …
Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is
past； For in your sweet dividing throat She winters； and keeps warm her
note。
Sometimes when the lady was dead； and Carew； again； wrote on her
monument …
And here the precious dust is laid； Whose purely…tempered clay was
made So fine that it the guest betrayed。
But there was besides another Lady of the lyrics； one who will never
pass from the world； but has passed from song。 In the sixteenth century
and in the seventeenth century this lady was Death。 Her inspiration
never failed； not a poet but found it as fresh as the inspiration of life。
Fancy was not quenched by the inevitable thought in those days； as it is in
ours； and the phrase lost no dignity by the integrity of use。
To every man it happens that at one time of his lifefor a space of
years or for a space of monthshe is convinced of death with an
incomparable reality。 It might seem as though literature； living the life of
a man； underwent that conviction in those ages。 Death was as often on
the tongues of men in older ages； and oftener in their hands； but in the
sixteenth century it was at their hearts。 The discovery of death did not
shake the poets from their composure。 On the contrary； the verse is never
measured with more majestic effect than when it moves in honour of this
Lady of the lyrics。 Sir Walter Raleigh is but a jerky writer when he is
rhyming other things； however bitter or however solemn； but his lines on
death； which are also lines on immortality； are infinitely noble。 These are；
needless to say； meditations upon death by law and violence； and so are
the ingenious rhymes of Chidiock Tichborne； written after his last prose in
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his farewell letter to his wife〃Now； Sweet… cheek； what is left to bestow
on thee； a small recompense for thy deservings〃and singularly beautiful
prose is this。 So also are Southwell's words。 But these are exceptional
deaths； and more dramatic than was needed to awake the poetry of the
meditative age。
It was death as the end of the visible world and of the idle business of
lifenot death as a passage nor death as a fear or a darknessthat was the
Lady of the lyrists。 Nor was their song of the act of dying。 With this a
much later and much more trivial literature busied itself。 Those two
centuries felt with a shock that death would bring an end； and that its
equalities would make vain the differences of wit and wealth which they
took apparently more seriously than to us seems probable。 They never
wearied of the wonder。 The poetry of our day has an entirely different
emotion for death as parting。 It was not parting that the lyrists sang of； it
was the mere simplicity of death。 None of our contemporaries will take
such a subject； they have no more than the ordinary conviction of the
matter。 For the great treatment of obvious things there must evidently be
an extraordinary conviction。
But whether the chief Lady of the lyrics be this； or whether she be the
implacable Elizabethan feigned by the love…songs； she has equally passed
from before the eyes of poets。
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JULY
One has the leisure of July for perceiving all the differences of the
green of leaves。 It is no longer a difference in degrees of maturity； for all
the trees have darkened to their final tone； and stand in their differences of
character and not of mere date。 Almost all the green is grave； not sad and
not dull。 It has a darkened and a daily colour； in majestic but not obvious
harmony with dark grey skies； and might look； to inconstant eyes； as
prosaic after spring as eleven o'clock looks after the dawn。
Gravity is the wordnot solemnity as towards evening； nor menace as
at night。 The daylight trees of July are signs of common beauty； common
freshness； and a mystery familiar and abiding as night and day。 In
childhood we all have a more exalted sense of dawn and summer sunrise
than we ever fully retain or quite recover； and also a far higher sensibility
for April and April eveningsa heartache for them； which in riper years is
gradually and irretrievably consoled。
But； on the other hand； childhood has so quickly learned to find daily
things tedious； and familiar things importunate； that it has no great delight
in the mere middle of the day； and feels weariness of the summer that has
ceased to change visibly。 The poetry of mere day and of late summer
becomes perceptible to mature eyes that have long ceased to be sated；
have taken leave of weariness； and cannot now find anything in nature too
familiar； eyes which have； indeed； lost sight of the further awe of
midsummer daybreak； and no longer see so much of the past in April
twilight as they saw when they had no past； but which look freshly at the
dailiness of green summer； of early afternoon； of every sky of any form
that comes to pass； and of the darkened elms。
Not unbeloved is this serious tree； the elm； with its leaf sitting close；
unthrilled。 Its stature gives it a dark gold head when it looks alone to a
late sun。 But if one could go by all the woods； across all the old forests
that are now meadowlands set with trees； and could walk a county
gathering trees of a single kind in the mind； as one walks a garden
collecting flowers of a single kind in the hand； would not the harvest be a
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harvest of poplars？ A veritable passion for poplars is a most intelligible
passion。 The eyes do gather them； far and near； on a whole day's journey。
Not one is unperceived； even though great timber should be passed； and
hill…sides dense and deep with trees。 The fancy makes a poplar day of it。
Immediately the country looks alive with signals； for the poplars
everywhere reply to the glance。 The woods may be all various； but the
poplars are separate。
All their many kinds （and aspens； their kin； must be counted with them）
shake themselves perpetually free of the motionless forest。 It is easy to
gather them。 Glances sent into the far distance pay them a flash of
recognition of their gentle flashes； and as you journey you are suddenly
aware of them close by。 Light and the b