if a rough gust tumbles it on the water so that its finely-feathered feet
are wet. On gentle breezes it is able to cross dry-shod, walking the
waters.

All unlike is this pilgrim star to the tethered constellations. It is
far adrift. It goes singly to all the winds. It offers thistle plants
(or whatever is the flower that makes such delicate ashes) to the tops of
many thousand hills. Doubtless the farmer would rather have to meet it
in battalions than in these invincible units astray. But if the farmer
owes it a lawful grudge, there is many a rigid riverside garden wherein
it would be a great pleasure to sow the thistles of the nearest pasture.




RUSHES AND REEDS


Taller than the grass and lower than the trees, there is another growth
that feels the implicit spring. It had been more abandoned to winter
than even the short grass shuddering under a wave of east wind, more than
the dumb trees. For the multitudes of sedges, rushes, canes, and reeds
were the appropriate lyre of the cold. On them the nimble winds played
their dry music. They were part of the winter. It looked through them
and spoke through them. They were spears and javelins in array to the
sound of the drums of the north.

The winter takes fuller possession of these things than of those that
stand solid. The sedges whistle his tune. They let the colour of his
light look through--low-flying arrows and bright bayonets of winter day.