Page:Comin' Thro' the Rye (1898).djvu/461

Rh earth-mother. Already in this fuller spring the indescribably delicate tints of leaf and flower and grass and sky are gone; the fresh, new, impalpable bloom that lay over all has vanished; the vague rapture and stir of nature is over. It is the fulfilment, not the promise; the reality, not the dream Over my head the apple blossoms are hanging, rosily white, pearly pink; they are so exquisite that I long to take a bough of them in my arms and bury my face in their cool, snowy beauty.

As I look up, a thrush, who has been swaying himself to and fro, hurries away, and a shower of pink and white scented leaves flutter down upon my head and face—what a feast is this for eye and heart and senses! And so it would have been to me a while ago; now it fills me with admiration, not love. And yet I would not have the days when nature contented me so thoroughly back again if I could.

sang the poet, with a deeper philosophy than the words at first sight seem to contain. Better is it to have a heart that has only quickened to die than one that goes beating torpidly on, knowing as little of joy as of pain. I think those who have a great capacity for suffering are not to be pitied, since they have an equal capacity for happiness; to such the great flood of ecstasy that has once swept over their souls, though quickly followed by sharpest misery, more envy may be given than to those whose hearts are watered only by puny rills of pleasure, who can only suffer as they endure—in moderation And though forgetfulness might bring me a base and sluggish peace, I would not lose memory—that sad and sweet faced maiden, in whose face I can look without remorse, and who, though she offers to my lips a full and bitter cup, cannot say "You mixed it; drink, for the evil is of your own