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.
Stay, stay.
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the evensong;
And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.

Yes, I think Herrick would have forgiven me for that momentary lapse into
regretfulness over the white hawthorn. He would have understood. You will
see that he understood if you will recall the second stanza, which, if you
are the person I take you for, you will do without needing to turn to a
book.

It is the same sense of the transience of beauty that inspired the "Ode to
a Grecian Urn" on which pastoral beauty was fixed in eternal rapture:--

Ah, happy, happy boughs I that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu.

And there we touch the paradox of this strange life. We would keep the
fleeting beauty of Nature, and yet we would not keep it. The thought of
those trees whose leaves are never shed, and of that eternal spring to
which we never bid adieu, is pleasant to toy with, but after all we would
not have it so. It is no more seriously tenable than the thought that
little Johnny there should remain for ever at the age of ten. You may feel
that you would like him to remain at the age of ten. Indeed you are a
strange parent if you do not look back a little wistfully to the childhood
of your children, and wish you could see them as you once saw them. But you
would not really have Johnny stick at ten. After five years of the
experience you would wish little Johnny dead. For life and its beauty are a
living thing, and not a pretty fancy sculptured on a Grecian urn.

And so with the pageant of Nature. If the pageant stopped, the wonder
itself would stop. I should have no sudden shock of delight at hearing the
first call of the cuckoo in spring or seeing my hawthorn hedge burst into
snowy blossoms. I should no longer remark the jolly clatter of the rooks in
the February trees which forms the prologue of spring, nor look out for the
coming of the first primrose or the arrival of the first swallow. I should
cease, it is true, to have the pangs of "Farewell," but I should