The beach-trees in the
olive garden throw up their pink spray among the shimmering
gray leaf and beside the gray stone walls. Warm breaths
steal to me over the grass and through the trees; the last
brought with it a strong scent of narcissus. A goat tethered
to a young tree in the orchard has reared its front feet
against the stem, and is nibbling at the branches. His white
back shines amid the light spring shade.
"Far down through the trees I can see the sparkle of the
waves--beyond, the broad plain of blue; and on the headland,
a mile away, white foam is dashing.
"It is the typical landscape of the South, and of spring, the
landscape, with only differences in detail, of Theocritus or
Vergil, or the Greek anthologists, those most delicate
singers of nature and the South. From the beginning it has
filled man with the same joy, the same yearning, the
same despair.
"In youth and happiness we _are_ the spring--the young
green--the blossom--the plashing waves. Their life is ours
and one with ours.
"But in age and grief? There is no resentment, I think; no
anger, as though a mourner resented the gayety around him;
but, rather, a deep and melancholy wonder at the chasm that
has now revealed itself between our life and nature.
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