But the real reason of the slight shadow that had fallen on my spirit was
the vanished hawthorn. Poor sentimentalist, you say, to cherish these idle
fancies in this stern world of blood and tears. Well, perhaps it is this
stern world of blood and tears that gives these idle fancies their
poignancy. Perhaps it is through those fancies that one feels the
transitoriness of other things. The coming and the parting in the round of
nature are so wonderfully mingled that we can never be quite sure whether
the joy of the one triumphs over the regret for the other. It is always
"Hail" and "Farewell" in one breath. I heard the cuckoo calling across the
meadows to-day, and already I noticed a faltering in his second note. Soon
the second note will be silent altogether, and the single call will sound
over the valley like the curfew bell of spring.
Who, I thought, would not fix these fleeting moments of beauty if he could?
Who would not keep the cuckoo's twin shout floating for ever over summer
fields and the blackbird for ever fluting his thanksgiving after summer
showers? Who can see the daffodils nodding their heads in sprightly dance
without sharing the mood of Herrick's immortal lament that that dance
should be so brief:--
Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd its noon.
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