_The Kaleidoscope_


I find in my mind, in its miscellany of ideas and musings, a
curious collection of little landscapes and pictures, shining
and fading for no reason. Sometimes they are views in no way
remarkable-the corner of a road, a heap of stones, an old gate.
But there are many charming pictures, too: as I read, between my
eyes and book, the Moon sheds down on harvest fields her chill
of silver; I see autumnal avenues, with the leaves falling, or
swept in heaps; and storms blow among my thoughts, with the rain
beating forever on the fields. Then Winter's upward glare of
snow appears; or the pink and delicate green of Spring in the
windy sunshine; or cornfields and green waters, and youths
bathing in Summer's golden heats.

And as I walk about, certain places haunt me: a cathedral rises
above a dark blue foreign town, the colour of ivory in the
sunset light; now I find myself in a French garden full of
lilacs and bees, and shut-in sunshine, with the Mediterranean
lounging and washing outside its walls; now in a little college
library, with busts, and the green reflected light of Oxford
lawns--and again I hear the bells, reminding me of the familiar
Oxford hours.