These Woods, Which Cover The Steep
And Rocky Walls Of The Gorge From River To Summit, Are Filled With The
June Colour Of Oak.
It is not green, nor russet, nor yellow; I think it
may be called a glow of yellow under green.
It is warmer than green; the
glow is not on the outer leaves, but comes up beneath from the depth of
the branches. The rush of the river soothes the mind, the broad
descending surfaces of yellow-green oak carry the glance downwards from
the blue over to the stream in the hollow. Rush! rush! - it is the river,
like a mighty wind in the wood. A pheasant crows, and once and again
falls the tap, tap of woodmen's axes - scarce heard, for they are high
above. They strip the young oaks of their bark as far as they can while
the saplings stand, then fell them, and as they all lie downhill there
are parallel streaks of buff (where the sap has dried) drawn between the
yellow-green masses of living leaf. The pathway winds in among the trees
at the base of the rocky hill; light green whortleberries fill every
interstice, bearing tiny red globes of flower - flower-lamps - open at the
top. Wood-sorrel lifts its delicate veined petals; the leaf is rounded
like the shadow of a bubble on a stone under clear water. I like to stay
by the wood-sorrel a little while - it is so chastely beautiful; like the
purest verse, it speaks to the inmost heart.
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