A film athwart the pathway quivers many-hued against purple shade fragrant with warm pines, deep moss-beds, feathery ferns.

The little brown squirrel drops tail, and leaps; the inmost bird is startled to a chance tuneless note.

From silence into silence things move.
Peeps of the revelling splendour above and around enliven the conscious full heart within.

The flaming West, the crimson heights, shower their glories through voluminous leafage.

But these are bowers where deep bliss dwells, imperial joy, that owes no fealty to yonder glories, in which the young lamb gambols and the spirits of men are glad.