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, I hearken 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.