Wax Flowers How To Make Them - Livres de poche

Unto the Little Mother in the Great Unseen When some strange whim tempts a fellow out into the faery land of literary dreams, and, still more strange, prompts him to pen the shaping of them, who knows what then may come to pass Lines thus turned to fill a leisure hour, here through several years, have come to light. Have dreams so gained a passing reality, or are they not still but echoing harmonies of the friendly past Had they been made for telling, it may be they would have been told differently. I know not dreams are not so made. So in part, not wholly, nor unchanged, the letters of Audrey are neither mine nor hers, and there are echoes of Amiel in one or two pages of my thought, yet who was Audrey . . . and what are dreams Again, I know not. Friends there are who speak to me as I turn my notebook leaves in retrospect, snatched from a life of promise to a nobler service. Friends there are, still lending of their strength, though long since lost amid the throng . . . Nay, are such friends ever lost For the rest, life itself, and this small tome which speaks thereof, belongs not to any Wayfarer, but to I all those strong spirits of welcome place, and kindly person, the pledge of whose fraternity it is. I The Vale of Pilgrimage Page 1 I1 Beyond the Whitened Stile Page 49 111 Breezes and Brown Berries Page 147 IV Hearth Fires and White Heather Page 195 The Vale of Pilgrimage Spring It is high golden noontide, and natures springsong lingers oer the lea. I AM but a crippled wayfarer, and one whose faring must needs be within the circling slope of the nearby hills which mark the limit of my strength. Yet, within that greenclad circle there is a little hearth where I may sit and look outupon the gleaming path made by the sun as it sinks to its evening rest within the western sea. Same day, it may be, I shall fare out along that path into the Great Beyond, and the little brook within the valley yonder will chant a quiet Nunc Dimittis for one more of humankind gone to hear the murmuring flow of a deeper river in another land. Yet in that deeper murmuring, methinks, there will be blended the rippling of the lesser stream that has taught me through many a quiet hour