his revelation of
nature's unwasted youth.

I do not care to look through these great masses of bloom; it is enough
simply to live in an hour which brings such an overflow of beauty from
the ancient fountains; but Nature herself lures one to deeper thoughts,
and, through the vision which spreads like a mirage over the landscape,
hints at some hidden loveliness at the root of this riotous blossoming,
some diviner vision for the eye of the spirit alone. "Look," she seems
to say, as I stand and gaze with unappeased hunger of soul, "this is my
holiday. In the coming weeks I have a whole race to feed, and over the
length of the world men are imploring my help. They do their little
share of work, and while they wait, waking and sleeping, anxiously
watching winds and clouds, I vitalise their toil and turn all my forces
to their bidding. The labour of the year is at hand and on its
threshold I take this holiday. To-day I give you a glimpse of
paradise; a garden in which all manner of loveliness blooms simply from
the overflow of life, without thought, or care, or toil. This was my
life before men came with their cries of hunger and nakedness; this
shall be my life again when they have passed beyond. This which lies
before you like a dream is a glimpse of life as it is in me, and shall
be in you; immortal, inexhaustible fulness of power and beauty,
overflowing in frolic loveliness. This shall be to you a day out of
eternity, a moment out of the immortal youth to which all true life
comes at last, and in which it abides."

I cannot say that I heard these words, and yet they were as real to me
as if they had been audible; in all fellowship with Nature silence is
deeper and more real than speech. As I stood meditating on these deep
things that lie at the bottom of this sea of bloom, I understood why
men in all ages have connected the flowering of the apple with their
dreams of paradise; I saw at a glance the immortal symbolism of these
blossoming fields and hillsides. I did not need to lift my eyes to
look upon that garden of Hesperides, lying like a dream of heaven under
the golden western skies, whence Heracles brought back the fruit of
Juno; I asked no aid of Milton's imagination to see the mighty hero in

. . . the gardens fair
Of Hesperus and his daughters three,
That sing about the golden tree;

and as I gazed, the vision of that other and nobler hero came before
me, whose purity is more to us than his pr