Man’s sense of beauty is his own: it is not Nature’s. The aim of all art is to restrict Nature, and teach her that her place is not in the high places of men; and we only admire Nature because in the present strength of our civilisation we are strong enough to pet her. Hannibal was a better judge of the true unsightliness of Alpine scenery than we ourselves. I should have preferred to add nothing to what I have drawn: but an explanation of my unkind view of the rival claims of Pan and the Garden-god has been wrung from me. For the present the genius of civilisation, numerating duration into hours and years and centuries for man’s convenience, overrides the slow-crawling tortoise of Time: but it will not always be so; and earth will come at last to be altogether rid of us and that superfluous “sense of beauty” which has so long yoked her back, and hedged her wastes and furrowed her fields. LAURENCE HOUSMAN. [Illustration] THE SENSITIVE PLANT FIRST PART I A sensitive plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night. II And the Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. III But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, and the wilderness, Like a doe in the noontide with love’s sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant. [Illustration] IV The snowdrop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. V Then the pied windflowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream’s recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness; VI And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green; VII And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, It was felt like an odour within the sense; [Illustration] VIII And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare: IX And the wand-like lily, which lifted up As a Mænad, its moonlight-coloured cup, Till the fiery star, which is its eye Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky; X