golden ricks of the farms are dyed with the sun as one might paint with a
colour. Bright as it is, the glow is rather the dye of sunlight than its
luminosity. For by a kind of paradox the luminous landscape is that
which is full of shadows--the landscape before you when you turn and face
the sun. Not only every reed and rush of the salt marshes, every
uncertain aspen-leaf of the few trees, but every particle of the October
air shows a shadow and makes a mystery of the light. There is nothing
but shadow and sun; colour is absorbed and the landscape is reduced to a
shining simplicity. Thus is the dominant sun sufficient for his day. His
passage kindles to unconsuming fires and quenches into living ashes. No
incidents save of his causing, no delight save of his giving: from the
sunrise, when the larks, not for pairing, but for play, sing the only
virginal song of the year--a heart younger than Spring's in the season of
decline--even to the sunset, when the herons scream together in the
shallows. And the sun dominates by his absence, compelling the low
country to sadness in the melancholy night.




THE FLOWER


There is a form of oppression that has not until now been confessed by
those who suffer from it or who are participants, as mere witnesses, in
its tyranny. It is the obsession of man by the flower. In the shape of
the flower his own paltriness revisits him--his triviality, his sloth,
his cheapness, his wholesale habitualness, his slatternly ostentation.
These return to him and wreak upon him their dull revenges. What the
tyranny really had grown to can be gauged nowhere so well as in country