Then There Are Whole Beds Of The Little Blue Forget-Me-Not,
And A White Flower Which Much Resembles It In Form.
I also noticed,
hanging in the clefts of the rocks around Tete Noir, the long golden
tresses of the laburnum.
It has seemed to me, when I have been
travelling here, as if every flower I ever saw in a garden met me some
where in rocks or meadows.
There is a strange, unsatisfying pleasure about flowers, which, like
all earthly pleasure, is akin to pain. What can you do with them? - you
want to do something, but what? Take them all up, and carry them with
you? You cannot do that. Get down and look at them? What, keep a whole
caravan waiting for your observations! That will never do. Well, then,
pick and carry them along with you. That is what, in despair of any
better resource, I did. My good old guide was infinite in patience,
stopping at every new exclamation point of mine, plunging down rocks
into the meadow land, climbing to the points of great rocks, and
returning with his hands filled with flowers. It seemed almost
sacrilegious to tear away such fanciful creations, that looked as if
they were votive offerings on an altar, or, more likely, living
existences, whose only conscious life was a continued exhalation of
joy and praise.
These flowers seemed to me to be earth's raptures and aspirations
- her better moments - her lucid intervals. Like every thing else in
our existence, they are mysterious.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 265 of 455
Words from 70236 to 70491
of 120793
