The spring of life, and the spring of the year were alike meant to be cradled in the green lap of Nature. To us, in the town, spring brings but its cold winds and drizzling rains. We must seek it amongst the leafless woods, and the brambly lanes, on the heathy moors, and the great, still hills, if we want to feel its joyous breath, and hear its silent voices. There is a glorious freshness in the spring there. The scurrying clouds, the open bleakness, the rushing wind, and the clear bright air, thrill one with vague energies and hopes. Life, like the landscape around us, seems bigger, and wider, and freer—a rainbow road, leading to unknown ends. Through the silvery rents that bar the sky, we seem to catch a glimpse of the great hope and grandeur that lies around this little throbbing world, and a breath of its scent is wafted us on the wings of the wild March wind.
Strange thoughts we do not understand are stirring in our hearts. Voices are calling us to some great effort, to some mighty work. But we do not comprehend their meaning yet, and the hidden echoes within us that would reply are struggling, inarticulate, and dumb.
We stretch our hands like children to the light, seeking to grasp we know not what. Our thoughts, like the boys' thoughts in the Danish song, are very long, long thoughts, and very vague; we cannot see their end.
