pageant of summer-第5部分

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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