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let us rid ourselves of mental terrors； and face death itself as
calmly as they do the livid lightning； so trustful and so content
with their fate； resting in themselves and unappalled。 If but by
reason and will I could reach the godlike calm and courage of what
we so thoughtlessly call the timid turtle…dove； I should lead a
nearly perfect life。
The bark of the ancient apple tree under which I have been standing
is shrunken like iron which has been heated and let cool round the
rim of a wheel。 For a hundred years the horses have rubbed against
it while feeding in the aftermath。 The scales of the bark are gone
or smoothed down and level； so that insects have no hiding…place。
There are no crevices for them； the horsehairs that were caught
anywhere have been carried away by birds for their nests。 The
trunk is smooth and columnar； hard as iron。 A hundred times the
mowing…grass has grown up around it； the birds have built their
nests； the butterflies fluttered by； and the acorns dropped from
the oaks。 It is a long； long time； counted by artificial hours or
by the seasons； but it is longer still in another way。 The
greenfinch in the hawthorn yonder has been there since I came out；
and all the time has been happily talking to his love。 He has left
the hawthorn indeed； but only for a minute or two； to fetch a few
seeds； and comes back each time more full of song…talk than ever。
He notes no slow movement of the oak's shadow on the grass； it is
nothing to him and his lady dear that the sun； as seen from his
nest； is crossing from one great bough of the oak to another。 The
dew even in the deepest and most tangled grass has long since been
dried； and some of the flowers that close at noon will shortly fold
their petals。 The morning airs； which breathe so sweetly； come
less and less frequently as the heat increases。 Vanishing from the
sky； the last fragments of cloud have left an untarnished azure。
Many times the bees have returned to their hives； and thus the
index of the day advances。 It is nothing to the greenfinches； all
their thoughts are in their song…talk。 The sunny moment is to them
all in all。 So deeply are they rapt in it that they do not know
whether it is a moment or a year。 There is no clock for feeling；
for joy； for love。
And with all their motions and stepping from bough to bough； they
are not restless； they have so much time； you see。 So； too； the
whitethroat in the wild parsley； so； too； the thrush that just now
peered out and partly fluttered his wings as he stood to look。 A
butterfly comes and stays on a leaf … a leaf much warmed by the sun
… and shuts his wings。 In a minute he opens them； shuts them
again； half wheels round； and by…and…by … just when he chooses； and
not before … floats away。 The flowers open； and remain open for
hours； to the sun。 Hastelessness is the only word one can make up
to describe it； there is much rest； but no haste。 Each moment； as
with the greenfinches； is so full of life that it seems so long and
so sufficient in itself。 Not only the days； but life itself
lengthens in summer。 I would spread abroad my arms and gather more
of it to me； could I do so。
All the procession of living and growing things passes。 The grass
stands up taller and still taller； the sheaths open； and the stalk
arises； the pollen clings till the breeze sweeps it。 The bees rush
past； and the resolute wasps； the humble…bees； whose weight swings
them along。 About the oaks and maples the brown chafers swarm； and
the fern…owls at dusk； and the blackbirds and jays by day； cannot
reduce their legions while they last。 Yellow butterflies； and
white； broad red admirals； and sweet blues； think of the kingdom of
flowers which is theirs！ Heavy moths burring at the edge of the
copse； green； and red； and gold flies： gnats； like smoke； around
the tree…tops； midges so thick over the brook； as if you could haul
a netful； tiny leaping creatures in the grass； bronze beetles
across the path； blue dragonflies pondering on cool leaves of
water…plantain。 Blue jays flitting； a magpie drooping across from
elm to elm； young rooks that have escaped the hostile shot
blundering up into the branches； missel thrushes leading their
fledglings； already strong on the wing； from field to field。 An
egg here on the sward dropped by a starling； a red ladybird
creeping； tortoise…like； up a green fern frond。 Finches undulating
through the air； shooting themselves with closed wings； and linnets
happy with their young。
Golden dandelion discs … gold and orange … of a hue more beautiful；
I think； than the higher and more visible buttercup。 A blackbird；
gleaming； so black is he； splashing in the runlet of water across
the gateway。 A ruddy king…fisher swiftly drawing himself； as you
might draw a stroke with a pencil； over the surface of the yellow
buttercups； and away above the hedge。 Hart's…tongue fern； thick
with green； so green as to be thick with its colour； deep in the
ditch under the shady hazel boughs。 White meadow…sweet lifting its
tiny florets； and black…flowered sedges。 You must push through the
reed grass to find the sword…flags； the stout willow…herbs will not
be trampled down； but resist the foot like underwood。 Pink lychnis
flowers behind the withy stoles； and little black moorhens swim
away； as you gather it； after their mother； who has dived under the
water…grass； and broken the smooth surface of the duckweed。 Yellow
loosestrife is rising； thick comfrey stands at the very edge； the
sandpipers run where the shore is free from bushes。 Back by the
underwood the prickly and repellent brambles will presently present
us with fruit。 For the squirrels the nuts are forming； green
beechmast is there … green wedges under the spray； up in the oaks
the small knots； like bark rolled up in a dot； will be acorns。
Purple vetches along the mounds； yellow lotus where the grass is
shorter； and orchis succeeds to orchis。 As I write them； so these
things come … not set in gradation； but like the broadcast flowers
in the mowing…grass。
Now follows the gorse； and the pink rest…harrow； and the sweet
lady's bedstraw； set as it were in the midst of a little thorn…
bush。 The broad repetition of the yellow clover is not to be
written； acre upon acre； and not one spot of green； as if all the
green had been planed away； leaving only the flowers to which the
bees come by the thousand from far and near。 But one white campion
stands in the midst of the lake of yellow。 The field is scented as
though a hundred hives of honey had been emptied on it。 Along the
mound by it the bluebells are seeding； the hedge has been cut and
the ground is strewn with twigs。 Among those seeding blue…bells
and dry twigs and mosses I think a titlark has his nest； as he
stays all day there and in the oak over。 The pale clear yellow of