Says Maurice de Guerin, true poet and lover of Nature: "An innumerable generation actually hangs on the branches of all the trees, on the fibres of the most insignificant grasses, like babes on the mother's breast.

All these germs, incalculable in their number and variety, are there suspended in their cradle between heaven and earth, and given over to the winds, whose charge it is to rock these beings.
Unseen amid the living forests swing the forests of the future.

Nature is all absorbed in the vast cares of her maternity." But while I walk and meditate, letting the forest tell its story to my innermost thought, and recalling here only that which is most obvious and superficial (who is sufficient for the deeper things that lie like pearls in the depths of his being ?), the light grows dimmer, and I know that the day has gone.

I retrace my steps until through the clustered trunks of the trees I see once more the green meadows soft in the light of sunset.

As I pass over the boundary line of the forest once more, faint and far the song of the thrush searches the wood, and, finding me, leaves its ethereal note in my memory--a note wild as the forest, and thrilling into momentary consciousness I know not what forgotten ages of awe and wonder and worship..