the rich Buttercup
Its tiny polished urn holds up,
Filled with ripe summer to the edge,[36]
turning many a meadow into a veritable field of the cloth of gold, and there are few prettier sights in nature than an English hay field on a summer evening, with a copse perhaps at one side and a brook on the other; men with forks tossing the hay in the air to dry; women with wooden rakes arranging it in swathes ready for the great four-horse waggon, or collecting it in cocks for the night; while some way off the mowers are still at work, and we hear from time to time the pleasant sound of the whetting of the scythe. All are working with a will lest rain should come and their labour be thrown away. This too often happens. But though we often complain of our English climate, it is yet, take it all in all, one of the best in the world, being comparatively free from extremes either of heat or cold, drought or deluge. To the happy mixture of sunshine and of rain we owe the greenness of our fields,
sparkling with dewdrops
Indwelt with little angels of the Sun,[37]
lit and
warmed by golden sunshine
And fed by silver rain,
which now and again sprinkles the whole earth with diamonds.
FOOTNOTES:
[22] The Spectator.
[23] Milton.
[24] Jefferies.