Beneath it long, slender patches of
silvery blue rushes made magic hedges, so symmetrical as to seem
clipped by the hand of art. So ethereal in their loveliness were
they, we could account for their presence in no other way than
being woven by the genii of the lake out of the purple bloom
that surrounded it.
It was a royal path fit for any of the nobility of earth to
journey upon. The air was so clear and transparent and the
surface of the lake so calm that a boat with some fishermen
appeared to be drifting in mid-air among a "veiled shower of
shadowy roses." The flight of a kingfisher was revealed in the
lake below as distinctly as in the sky above. A great blue-
heron, making one think of a French soldier at attention, was
silently awaiting a green-coated Boche to make his appearance
over the top of his lily-pad dugout. The stillness was so
pronounced it seemed as if all Nature held her breath while
super-powers of both lake and mountain wrought their miracles.
It must have been such a scene as this which Tennyson portrayed
in his "Lotus-Eaters:"
There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentler on the spirit lies
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes,
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful
skies
Here are cool mosses deep,
And through the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
