stream as a picture conceals the wall
where it hangs, but, as if the water cooled the rays, the eye can
bear to gaze on the image of the sun. Over its circle thin threads
of summer cloud are drawn; it is only the reflection, yet the sun
seems closer seen in the brook, more to do with us, like the grass,
and the tree, and the flowing stream. In the sky it is so far, it
cannot be approached, nor even gazed at, so that by the very virtue
and power of its own brilliance it forces us to ignore, and almost
forget it. The summer days go on, and no one notices the sun. The
sweet water slipping past the green flags, with every now and then a
rushing sound of eager haste, receives the sky, and it becomes a
part of the earth and of life. No one can see his own face without a
glass; no one can sit down and deliberately think of the soul till
it appears a visible thing. It eludes--the mind cannot grasp it. But
hold a flower in the hand--a rose, this later honeysuckle, or this
the first harebell--and in its beauty you can recognize your own
soul reflected as the sun in the brook. For the soul finds itself in
beautiful things.

Between the bulging root and the bank there is a tiny oval pool, on
the surface of which the light does not fall. There the eye can see
deep down into the stream, which scarcely moves in the hollow it has
worn for itself as its weight swings into the concave of the bend.
The hollow is illumined by the light which sinks through the stream
outside the root; and beneath, in the green depth, five or six roach
face the current. Every now and then a tiny curl appears on the
surface inside the root, and must rise up to come there. Unwinding
as it goes, its raised edge lowers and becomes lost in the level.
Dark moss on the base of the ash darkens the water under. The light
green leaves overhead yield gently to the passing air; there are but
few leaves on the tree, and these scarcely make a shadow on the
grass beyond that of the trunk. As the branch swings, the gnats are
driven farther away to avoid it. Over the verge of the bank, bending
down almost to the root in the water, droop the heavily seeded heads
of tall grasses which, growing there, have escaped the scythe.

These are the days of the convolvulus, of ripening berry, and
dropping nut. In the gateways, ears of wheat hang from the hawthorn
boughs, which seized them from the passing load. The broad aftermath
is without flowers; the flowers are gone to the uplan