Country life -- England -- Fiction; Pastoral fiction; Villages -- England -- Fiction
Now a few yards farther, and I reach the bank. Ah! I smell them
already--their exquisite perfume steams and lingers in this moist, heavy
air. Through this little gate, and along the green south bank of this
green wheat-field, and they burst upon me, the lovely violets, in
tenfold loveliness. The ground is covered with them, white and purple,
enamelling the short dewy grass, looking but the more vividly coloured
under the dull, leaden sky. There they lie by hundreds, by thousands.
In former years I have been used to watch them from the tiny green bud,
till one or two stole into bloom. They never came on me before in such
a sudden and luxuriant glory of simple beauty,--and I do really owe one
pure and genuine pleasure to feverish London! How beautifully they are
placed too, on this sloping bank, with the palm branches waving over
them, full of early bees, and mixing their honeyed scent with the more
delicate violet odour! How transparent and smooth and lusty are the
branches, full of sap and life! And there, just by the old mossy root,
is a superb tuft of primroses, with a yellow butterfly hovering over
them, like a flower floating on the air. What happiness to sit on this
tufty knoll, and fill my basket with the blossoms! What a renewal of
heart and mind! To inhabit such a scene of peace and sweetness is again
to be fearless, gay, and gentle as a child. Then it is that thought
becomes poetry, and feeling religion. Then it is that we are happy and
good. Oh, that my whole life could pass so, floating on blissful and
innocent sensation, enjoying in peace and gratitude the common blessings
of Nature, thankful above all for the simple habits, the healthful
temperament, which render them so dear! Alas! who may dare expect a life
of such happiness? But I can at least snatch and prolong the fleeting
pleasure, can fill my basket with pure flowers, and my heart with pure
thoughts; can gladden my little home with their sweetness; can divide my
treasures with one, a dear one, who cannot seek them; can see them when
I shut my eyes and dream of them when I fall asleep.
THE COPSE.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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