One has the leisure of July for perceiving all the differences of the
green of leaves. It is no longer a difference in degrees of maturity,
for all the trees have darkened to their final tone, and stand in their
differences of character and not of mere date. Almost all the green is
grave, not sad and not dull. It has a darkened and a daily colour, in
majestic but not obvious harmony with dark grey skies, and might look, to
inconstant eyes, as prosaic after spring as eleven o'clock looks after
the dawn.
Gravity is the word--not solemnity as towards evening, nor menace as at
night. The daylight trees of July are signs of common beauty, common
freshness, and a mystery familiar and abiding as night and day. In
childhood we all have a more exalted sense of dawn and summer sunrise
than we ever fully retain or quite recover; and also a far higher
sensibility for April and April evenings--a heartache for them, which in
riper years is gradually and irretrievably consoled.
But, on the other hand, childhood has so quickly learned to find daily
things tedious, and familiar things importunate, that it has no great
delight in the mere middle of the day, and feels weariness of the summer
that has ceased to change visibly. The poetry of mere day and of late
summer becomes perceptible to mature eyes that have long ceased to be
sated, have taken leave of weariness, and cannot now find anything in
nature too familiar; eyes which have, indeed, lost sight of the further
awe of midsummer daybreak, and no longer see so much of the past in April
twilight as they saw when they had no past; but which look freshly at the
dailiness of green summer, of early afternoon, of every sky of any form
that comes to pass, and of the darkened elms.
Not unbeloved is this serious tree, the elm, with its leaf sitting close,
unthrilled. Its stature gives it a dark gold head when it looks alone to
a late sun. But if one could go by all the woods, across all the old
forests that are now meadowlands set with trees, and could walk a county
gathering trees of a single kind in the mind, as one walks a garden
collecting flowers of a single kind in the hand, would not the harvest be
a harvest of poplars? A veritable passion for poplars is a most
intelligible passion. The eyes do gather them, far and near, on a whole
day's journey. Not one is unperceived, even though great timber should
be passed, and hill-sides dense and deep with trees. The fancy makes a
poplar day of it. Immediately the country looks alive with signals; for
the poplars everywhere reply to the glance. The woods may be all
various, but the poplars are separate.
All their many kinds (and aspens, their kin, must be counted with them)
shake themselves perpetually free of the motionless forest. It is easy
to gather them. Glances sent into the far distance pay them a flash of
recognition of their gentle flashes; and as you journey you are suddenly
aware of them close by. Light and the breezes are as quick as the eyes
of a poplar-lover to find the willing tree that dances to be seen.
No lurking for them, no reluctance. One could never make for oneself an
oak day so well. The oaks would wait to be found, and many would be
missed from the gathering. But the poplars are alert enough for a
traveller by express; they have an alarum aloft, and do not sleep. From
within some little grove of other trees a single poplar makes a slight
sign; or a long row of poplars suddenly sweep the wind. They are salient
everywhere, and full of replies. They are as fresh as streams.
It is difficult to realize a drought where there are many poplars. And
yet their green is not rich; the coolest have a colour much mingled with
a cloud-grey. It does but need fresh and simple eyes to recognize their
unfaded life. When the other trees grow dark and keep still, the poplar
and the aspen do not darken--or hardly--and the deepest summer will not
find a day in which they do not keep awake. No waters are so vigilant,
even where a lake is bare to the wind.
When Keats said of his Dian that she fastened up her hair "with fingers
cool as aspen leaves," he knew the coolest thing in the world. It is a
coolness of colour, as well as of a leaf which the breeze takes on both
sides--the greenish and the greyish. The poplar green has no glows, no
gold; it is an austere colour, as little rich as the colour of willows,
and less silvery than theirs. The sun can hardly gild it; but he can
shine between. Poplars and aspens let the sun through with the wind. You
may have the sky sprinkled through them in high midsummer, when all the
woods are close.
Sending your fancy poplar-gathering, then, you ensnare wild trees,
beating with life. No fisher's net ever took such glancing fishes, nor
did the net of a constellation's shape ever enclose more vibrating
Pleiades.