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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
68
XXV.
Walking
in
a
favourite
lane
to-day,
I
found
it
covered
with
shed
blossoms
of
the
hawthorn.
Creamy
white,
fragrant
even
in
ruin,
lay
scattered
the
glory
of
the
May.
It
told
me
that
spring
is
over.
Have
I
enjoyed
it
as
I
should?
Since
the
day
that
brought
me
freedom,
four
times
have
I
seen
the
year's
new
birth,
and
always,
as
the
violet
yielded
to
the
rose,
I
have
known
a
fear
that
I
had
not
sufficiently
prized
this
boon
of
heaven
whilst
it
was
with
me.
Many
hours
I
have
spent
shut
up
among
my
books,
when
I
might
have
been
in
the
meadows.
Was
the
gain
equivalent?
Doubtfully,
diffidently,
I
hearken
what
the
mind
can
plead.
I
recall
my
moments
of
delight,
the
recognition
of
each
flower
that
unfolded,
the
surprise
of
budding
branches
clothed
in
a
night
with
green.
The
first
snowy
gleam
upon
the
blackthorn
did
not
escape
me.
By
its
familiar
bank,
I
watched
for
the
earliest
primrose,
and
in
its
copse
I
found
the
anemone.
Meadows
shining
with
buttercups,
hollows
sunned
with
the
marsh
marigold
held
me
long
at
gaze.
I
saw
the
sallow
glistening
with
its
cones
of
silvery
fur,
and
splendid
with
dust
of
gold.
These
common
things
touch
me
with
more
of
admiration
and
of
wonder
each
time
I
behold
them.
They
are
once
more
gone.
As
I
turn
to
summer,
a
misgiving
mingles
with
my
joy.
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