‘It is hard to give in an English translation an idea of the richness of the verse, heavily rhymed and winningly alliterated, but you will see that he enumerates the natural objects with skill. The eternal summer—the same in his day as in ours—he speaks of as “a coloured mantle,” and he mentions “the fragrance of the woods.” And seeing the crisp leaves—for the summer was waning—I repeated his phrase, “the summer’s coloured mantle,” and remembered:
“Swarms of bees and chafers, the little musicians of the world—
A gentle chorus.”
“The wren,” he says, “is an active songster among the hazel boughs. Beautifully hooded birds, wood-peckers, fair white birds, herons, sea-gulls, come to visit me.” There is no mournful music in his island; and as for loneliness, there is no such thing in
“My low
