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In the clear air each flower stands out with separate and perfect beauty, moist, soft and bright, a beauty than which I know nothing more nearly capable of transferring the soul to the days and the pleasures of infancy. The crust of half a lifetime falls away, and we can feel what Blake expressed when he wrote those lines in Milton—

Thou perceivest the flowers put forth their precious odours,

And none can tell how from so small a centre comes such sweet,

Forgetting that within that centre Eternity expands

Its ever-during doors, that Og and Anax fiercely guard.

First, ere the morning breaks, joy opens in the flowery bosoms,

Joy even to tears, which the Sun rising dries; first the Wild Thyme

And Meadow-sweet, downy and soft, waving among the reeds,

Light springing in the air, lead the sweet Dance; they wake

The Honeysuckle sleeping in the Oak, the flaunting beauty

Revels along upon the wind; the white-thorn lovely May

Opens her many lovely eyes; listening the Rose still sleeps.

None dare to wake her. Soon she bursts her crimson-curtained bed