On a
deeper, almost sombre green; and it brought back to us the vivid spring
feeling, the delight we had so often experienced on seeing again the
orange-tip, that frail delicate flutterer, the loveliest, the most
spiritual, of our butterflies.
Oddly enough, the very thing which, one supposes, would spoil a lyric
about any natural object - the use of a scientific instead of a popular
name, with the doubling and frequent repetition of it - appeared in this
instance to add a novel distinction and beauty to the verses.
The end of our talk on the subject was a suggestion I made that it
would be a nice act on her part to follow Longman's lead and write a
little nature poem for the next number of the magazine. This she said
she would do if I on my part would promise to follow her poem with one
by me, and I said I would.
Accordingly her poem, which I transcribe, made its appearance in the
next number.
MY MOOR
Purple with heather, and golden with gorse,
Stretches the moorland for mile after mile;
Over it cloud-shadows float in their course, -
Grave thoughts passing athwart a smile, -
Till the shimmering distance, grey and gold,
Drowns all in a glory manifold.
