The winter (as I said before) had been a very mild one; and now the spring was toward so that bank and bush were touched with it.  The valley into which I gazed was fair with early promise, having shelter from the wind and taking all the sunshine.  The willow-bushes over the stream hung as if they were angling with tasseled floats of gold and silver, bursting like a bean-pod.  Between them came the water laughing, like a maid at her own dancing, and spread with that young blue which never lives beyond the April.  And on either bank, the meadow ruffled as the breeze came by, opening (through new tuft, of green) daisy-bud or celandine, or a shy glimpse now and then of the love-lorn primrose.

[Illustration:  131.jpg The meadow ruffled in the breeze]

Though I am so blank of wit, or perhaps for that same reason, these little things come and dwell with me, and I am happy about them, and long for nothing better.  I feel with every blade of grass, as if it had a history; and make a child of every bud as though it knew and loved me.  And being so, they seem to tell me of my own delusions, how I am no more than they, except in self-importance.

While I was forgetting much of many things that harm one, and letting of my thoughts go wild to sounds and sights of nature, a sweeter note than thrush or ouzel ever wooed a mate in, floated on the valley breeze at the quiet turn of sundown.  The words were of an ancient song, fit to laugh or cry at.

[Illustration:  132.jpg Willow-Bushes over the stream]

    “Love, an if there be one,
     Come my love to be,
     My love is for the one
     Loving unto me.

     Not for me the show, love,
     Of a gilded bliss;
     Only thou must know, love,
     What my value is.

     If in all the earth, love,
     Thou hast none but me,
     This shall be my worth, love: 
     To be cheap to thee.

     But, if so thou ever
     Strivest to be free,
     ’Twill be my endeavour
     To be dear to thee.

     So shall I have plea, love,
     Is thy heart and breath
     Clinging still to thee, love,
     In the doom of death.”

All this I took in with great eagerness, not for the sake of the meaning (which is no doubt an allegory), but for the power and richness, and softness of the singing, which seemed to me better than we ever had even in Oare church.  But all the time I kept myself in a black niche of the rock, where the fall of the water began, lest the sweet singer (espying me) should be alarmed, and flee away.  But presently I ventured to look forth where a bush was; and then I beheld the loveliest sight—­one glimpse of which was enough to make me kneel in the coldest water.