Walking in a favourite lane to-day, I found it covered with shed blossoms of the hawthorn.Creamy white, fragrant even in ruin, lay scattered the glory of the May.It told me that spring is over.
Have I enjoyed it as I should? Since the day that brought me freedom, four times have I seen the year's new birth, and always, as the violet yielded to the rose, I have known a fear that I had not sufficiently prized this boon of heaven whilst it was with me.Many hours I have spent shut up among my books, when I might have been in the meadows.Was the gain equivalent? Doubtfully, diffidently, Ihearken what the mind can plead.
I recall my moments of delight, the recognition of each flower that unfolded, the surprise of budding branches clothed in a night with green.The first snowy gleam upon the blackthorn did not escape me.
By its familiar bank, I watched for the earliest primrose, and in its copse I found the anemone.Meadows shining with buttercups, hollows sunned with the marsh marigold held me long at gaze.I saw the sallow glistening with its cones of silvery fur, and splendid with dust of gold.These common things touch me with more of admiration and of wonder each time I behold them.They are once more gone.As I turn to summer, a misgiving mingles with my joy.
