The Single-Spruce, Which I Had Hardly Noticed
In Gardens, Attracts Me In Such Places, And Now First I
Understand Why Men Try To Make Them Grow About Their Houses.
But
though there may be very perfect specimens in front-yard plots,
their beauty is for the most part ineffectual there, for there is
no such assurance of kindred wealth beneath and around them, to
make them show to advantage.
As we have said, Nature is a
greater and more perfect art, the art of God; though, referred to
herself, she is genius; and there is a similarity between her
operations and man's art even in the details and trifles. When
the overhanging pine drops into the water, by the sun and water,
and the wind rubbing it against the shore, its boughs are worn
into fantastic shapes, and white and smooth, as if turned in a
lathe. Man's art has wisely imitated those forms into which all
matter is most inclined to run, as foliage and fruit. A hammock
swung in a grove assumes the exact form of a canoe, broader or
narrower, and higher or lower at the ends, as more or fewer
persons are in it, and it rolls in the air with the motion of the
body, like a canoe in the water. Our art leaves its shavings and
its dust about; her art exhibits itself even in the shavings and
the dust which we make. She has perfected herself by an eternity
of practice. The world is well kept; no rubbish accumulates; the
morning air is clear even at this day, and no dust has settled on
the grass.
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