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136
My Studio Neighbors
·
W. Hamilton Gibson
80
Let
us
then
content
ourselves
no
longer
with
being
mere
"botanists"--historians
of
structural
facts.
The
flowers
are
not
mere
comely
or
curious
vegetable
creations,
with
colors,
odors,
petals,
stamens,
and
innumerable
technical
attributes.
The
wonted
insight
alike
of
scientist,
philosopher,
theologian,
and
dreamer
is
now
repudiated
in
the
new
revelation.
Beauty
is
not
"its
own
excuse
for
being,"
nor
was
fragrance
ever
"wasted
on
the
desert
air."
The
seer
has
at
last
heard
and
interpreted
the
voice
in
the
wilderness.
The
flower
is
no
longer
a
simple
passive
victim
in
the
busy
bee's
sweet
pillage,
but
rather
a
conscious
being,
with
hopes,
aspirations,
and
companionships.
The
insect
is
its
counterpart.
Its
fragrance
is
but
a
perfumed
whisper
of
welcome,
its
color
is
as
the
wooing
blush
and
rosy
lip,
its
portals
are
decked
for
his
coming,
and
its
sweet
hospitalities
humored
to
his
tarrying;
and
as
it
finally
speeds
its
parting
affinity
rests
content
that
its
life's
consummation
has
been
fulfilled.
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