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