For us the solstice is
abolished, and we sturdily refuse to give up our midsummer till the
first gleam of yellow comes on the leaves. We are not all lucky enough
to see the leagues upon leagues of overpowering colour as the sun comes
up on the Alps; we cannot all rest in the glittering seclusion of
Norwegian fiords; but most of us, in our modest way, can enjoy our
extravagantly prolonged midsummer beside the shore of our British
waters. Spring is the time for hope; our midsummer is the time for
ripened joy, for healthful rest; and we are satisfied with the beaches
and cliffs that are hallowed by many memories--we are satisfied with
simple copses and level fields. They say that spring is the poet's
season; but we know better. Spring is all very well for those who have
constant leisure; it is good to watch the gradual bursting of early
buds; it is good to hear the thrush chant his even-song of love; it is
good to rest the eye on the glorious clouds of bloom that seem to float
in the orchards. But the midsummer, the gallant midsummer, pranked in
manifold splendours, is the true season of poetry for the toilers. The
birds of passage who are now crowding out of the towns have had little
pleasure in the spring, and their blissful days are only now beginning.
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