"The true
harvest of my life," said Thoreau, "is something as intangible and
indescribable as the tints of morning and evening." It was the summary, the
essence, of all his experience. We are like bees foraging in the garden of
the world, and hoarding the honey in the hive of memory. And no hoard is
like any other hoard that ever was or ever will be. The cuckoo calling over
the valley, the blackbird fluting in the low boughs in the evening, the
solemn majesty of the Abbey, the life of the streets, the ebb and flow of
Father Thames--everything whispers to us some secret that it has for no
other ear, and touches a chord of memory that echoes in no other brain.
Those deeps within us find only a crude expression in the vehicle of words
and actions, and our intercourse with men touches but the surface of
ourselves. The rest is "as intangible and indescribable as the tints of
morning and evening." It was one of the most companionable of men, William
Morris, who said:
That God has made each one of us as lone
As He Himself sits.
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