life, to see the seed-leaf push aside the clod and become by
degrees the perfumed flower. From the tiny mottled egg come the
wings that by-and-by shall pass the immense sea. It is in this
marvellous transformation of clods and cold matter into living
things that the joy and the hope of summer reside. Every blade of
grass, each leaf, each separate floret and petal, is an inscription
speaking of hope. Consider the grasses and the oaks, the swallows,
the sweet blue butterfly - they are one and all a sign and token
showing before our eyes earth made into life. So that my hope
becomes as broad as the horizon afar, reiterated by every leaf,
sung on every bough, reflected in the gleam of every flower. There
is so much for us yet to come, so much to be gathered, and enjoyed.
Not for you or me, now, but for our race, who will ultimately use
this magical secret for their happiness. Earth holds secrets
enough to give them the life of the fabled Immortals. My heart is
fixed firm and stable in the belief that ultimately the sunshine
and the summer, the flowers and the azure sky, shall become, as it
were, interwoven into man's existence. He shall take from all
their beauty and enjoy their glory. Hence it is that a flower is
to me so much more than stalk and petals. When I look in the glass
I see that every line in my face means pessimism; but in spite of
my face - that is my experience - I remain an optimist. Time with
an unsteady hand has etched thin crooked lines, and, deepening the
hollows, has cast the original expression into shadow. Pain and
sorrow flow over us with little ceasing, as the sea-hoofs beat on
the beach. Let us not look at ourselves but onwards, and take
strength from the leaf and the signs of the field. He is indeed
despicable who cannot look onwards to the ideal life of man. Not
to do so is to deny our birthright of mind.